


Paper Trail

by Wanderer (Straggler)



Category: Wanted (2008), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Character Death, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other, Random extra characters, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straggler/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley had been unaware that he had any family left; his mother was dead, he killed his father, and he apparently had a twin brother, too, whom had also just recently passed. How the hell did this become his life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am very, so honestly excited by this new story. I'm on the VERGE of just tipping over the scale from plain weird to INSANE. Anyways, I hope this story will interest you enough to make you stick around till the end. 
> 
> URGH! TOO MUCH COMPLICATED FEELS!!
> 
> Somebody scream and jump around with me!!!
> 
> KYAAAA!!!

First line of thought was: _shit_ , _how the fuck did they find me?_ Second was: _I have a twin?_

 

The man in front of him was smiling, in a really creepy leery kind of way that made Wesley’s fingers twitch and itch closer towards the gun he had stowed behind his back. He could probably put a bullet between the guy’s eyes if he so much as moved an inch the wrong direction, but hell, just because there was something seriously fucked up about the guy didn’t mean that Wesley had the right to empty cartridges into the man’s brain. If he actually went about with that line of thinking, then at least half of the population would be dead by his feet. Maybe two-thirds.

 

‘Mr. Gibson,’ the man began cordially, congenially, but his shifty eyes made him look anything but. Or maybe Wesley was just that paranoid about everyone and everything. The fact that they were having this conversation in an alley way wasn’t doing any favors, either. ‘I assure you that I’m not lying; you have a twin brother, but I’m sincerely sorry that you had to find this out via news of his death.’

 

Wesley wasn’t quite sure what to think about that, but he knew that the man, whoever the fuck he was, wasn’t the least bit _sincere_ or even remotely _sorry_. Asshole.

 

‘You were a hard man to find, Mr. Gibson; we went through plenty of our resources in order to find you.’

 

_Doesn’t explain how you still managed to do it._

 

‘Why,’ he demanded to know. Why did they put so much effort into finding him? He was a nobody; less than dirt. Besides, didn’t they consider that maybe, just _maybe_ , he didn’t want to be found?

 

The man’s eyebrows rose up to his receding hairline, thoroughly surprise, and had to clear his throat twice to regain his lost composure before he pulled up his leather carry bag and unclipped it. Wesley tensed ( _watch it; keep an eye on both hands_ ) and fought back the urge to whip out his gun as the palpitations in his heart grew and the fidget of his hands became more and more noticeable. After a scant few seconds that felt easily five times as long, the man eventually pulled out a thin brown envelope and held it out between them.

 

Wesley continued to hold his breath as he kept a wary eye on the man’s hand while he tentatively took the envelope. He didn’t open it.

 

‘You’ll find all the legal documents in there,’ the man said as he tapped the envelope. ‘There are also a few things you’ll need to sign, to settle everything to your name.’

 

 _My name._  He inwardly scoffed; his name meant nothing. Just ask Google.

 

The words “To the Attention of Wesley Allan Gibson” was marked on the front with bright red ink. It screamed danger, and for some reason, Wesley couldn’t help but feel this is a trap. It felt like Sloan all over again, and if there was a chance he could escape from that kind of mind-fuckery, then hell, he would.

 

‘Once the paperwork is cleared, being the twin brother of Charles Xavier and consequently the remaining heir of the Xavier family, all assets will be passed on to you. And let me just say, it is a _considerable_ amount.’ Now where had he heard that one before? It was like déjà vu and a part of Wesley itched to run as fast and as far as he humanly could, which was an extensive distance.

 

There was that leery look again and Wesley wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch the man’s face in or shoot him in the foot. Either way, it would get rid of that look. Either way, it would be _very_ satisfying.

 

The envelope felt heavy, despite its average letter size and almost non-existent weight. He supposed it was a trick of a mind; to give something insubstantial a substantial worth, in this case, it was a burden. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it and he half-contemplated just burning it.

 

Because ignorance is bliss.

 

‘Here’s my card,’ the man said after a few beats and pulled out a small piece of paper from one of the side pockets of his bag. That small action didn’t prompt a huge jump in his blood pressure, but it was still something that made him instantly aware of his surroundings. There was a bin right beside him, with a beer bottle lying on its side right on the lid. If he needed it, he could use it to smash the man’s skull in, maybe thrust it up the jugular if the blow wasn’t enough to take him out. ‘Use the next few days to think it over; sleep on it. When you’re ready, call me.’

 

‘How did he die?’ He blurted out before he could stop himself as he slipped the card into the front pocket of his worn jeans without looking at it.

 

‘How? Well,’ he shrugged, ‘let me just say that it was an unpleasant way to go.’

 

Wesley’s frown deepened, because the man practically evaded the question. Maybe he was being polite, or maybe he didn’t know, or maybe he was being devious on purpose, in that ‘ _I know something you don’t know,’_ kind of way. Dickwad.

 

‘Are the autopsy reports included in here?’ He asked as he quietly waved the envelope around. It crinkled slightly.

 

‘No,’ the man seemed surprised, maybe he forgot to add it in there, or maybe because it wasn’t often that someone asked for it; most people forget to. ‘It’s still under investigation, but I can muster it up for you. It’ll take a while, though.’

 

‘Fine.’

 

As though finally seeing his cue to leave, the man nodded his head in a vague gesture of a farewell and exited the alley way, clipping his carry bag close as he did so. Wesley continued to watch with a careful eye, and remained that way for another five minutes before he quietly slipped away into the darker parts of the alley and took the longer route back to his apartment. Occasionally, he’d look over his shoulder every five or six steps, but that was a habit he had formed from his days he spent as a Fraternity member and it was a habit he kept close to him and had kept him alive more times than he could count. Sure, it made him look suspicious, but he’d rather that than be dead.

 

He backtracked his route twice, went into a shopping mall the front way and exited through the back, walked into a different apartment complex, got up four storeys and climbed his way down a fire escape. It took him well over half an hour before he stepped through the threshold into his own piece of real estate, confident enough that he hadn’t any followers, and closed the door behind him with a careful huff. What should’ve been only a ten minute stroll from alley way to his apartment turned into a guarded walkabout that lasted almost five times as long. Wesley stayed by the door for another five minutes, his ears out for anything weird or off. Eventually, he stepped away from the door, tossed the envelope onto the worn chair, threw off his jacket and pulled out the gun he tucked behind him to hang limply off his fingers.

 

A train passed by in a racket, lulling him into a quiet sense of awareness. The building shook just the slightest bit, being old and barely maintained. His eyes never strayed away from the envelope with his name written all over it.

 

Did he want to open it?

 

_Fuck that._

 

He put the gun next to the photo frames by the cupboard and went into the bathroom to drown his face in a sink of cold water. By the time he felt ready enough to open the letter, the sun had sunk and the world outside was dark. Across the way, he could see that three out of the four visible apartments had their lights switched on, and he could see Barry staring off into space with a bewildered look on his face while Cathy’s mouth ran off. She was probably asking him the same question of ‘ _when the hell are we gonna move out of this shit-hole, Barry?_ ’ like she used to when they were together.

 

A snort escaped his lips as he ignored the light-switch, preferring to be kept in the dark, picked up the envelope before promptly settling back down with a satisfied breath. With more force than necessary, he ripped it open, pulled out the documents and used the outside street lamps to read the papers with.

 

The first page was an introductory; nothing new from what the man had told him. Speaking of which, he pulled out the business card from his pocket and scanned it. It had a name, a job title, a phone number for work and mobile as well as a work address and a company logo.

 

Harold Smith.

 

Wesley wondered what he would find if he googled it up. At least one result, probably.

 

He flipped to the next page; his relation to Charles Xavier, there was even a picture. DNA testing showed that they matched, as if he couldn’t tell from the resemblance in the photograph, which was odd because Cross never mentioned another son, let alone a twin. Maybe his father didn’t know, or maybe he succeeded in getting at least one of his kids a happy life; the life he never had.

 

A big ‘ _fuck you_ ’ if ever there was one.

 

He angrily moved onto the next page and tried to work out what he was reading. All he got was a bunch of numbers, what looked like an insignia, and a long list that scrolled onto the next page after that. After a few beats, he realized it was the family Will.

 

When his ‘father’ died, Sloan told him he had a substantial amount of worth passed on to him. It had been approximately $3.6 million. It didn’t matter that he only had it for a grand total of six weeks, what mattered was that, at one point, he had been richer beyond his wildest dreams.

 

The amount stated on the Will was that and a good hundred times more than he bargained for. It was that and so insane that he had half a mind to think he was probably hallucinating and making up the figures or confusing it for an account number.

 

But no, in total of the two accounts, one which was a family account and another which was Charles’ personal trust fund, he was a billionaire, owner of a sizable mansion (a _mansion, are you fucking kidding me?_ )in Westchester County somewhere in New York, and an owner of a small apartment located in San Francisco. There was more, but Wesley’s head was already spinning enough as it is.

 

The Xaviers even had a family crest.

 

_Old money…_

 

This was all too much to absorb. He dropped the papers on the floor, ignored the way it splayed across the wooden surface and slipped even under the chair.

 

_What the fuck is this?_

 

Finding out that not only did he actually have family left in his fucked up life, but also that his twin brother was _dead_ , well…

 

His life was already fucked up to begin with; why not fuck it up even more?

 

Wesley laughed hysterically into his hands, couldn’t even figure out how he managed to get from the chair to his bed by the next morning. It all seemed a blur.

 

It took him three days to sign the papers and ring Harold about it from a payphone. It took him another two more days to figure out what he wanted to do with his new found fortune. Seeing his name next to a bunch of long numbers when he went to make a withdrawal at an ATM almost made his knees crumple, but he was still under the impression that it would leave him in a blink of an eye like it did the first time around. He was used to a hard life, so he wasn’t under the illusion that something like this was going to last.

 

At first, he didn’t quite know what to do; he never aspired to be rich, only to live by comfortably, but he figured he’d go to San Francisco and see how things went from there. So the first considerable thing he bought with the money was a train ticket, because airport security was testy about people carrying guns and knives on their persons. It was also easier to hide and ditch a train than from a plane when situations called for it.

 

When he stepped out from the station and into the rains of San Francisco, he couldn’t help but feel this is an omen; wasn’t it supposed to be sunny this time of year?

 

With nothing but a piece of paper in hand with an address and a simple set of directions, Wesley quickly made his way towards Charles Xavier’s apartment with thoughts only to clean up what’s left behind and write the lease off.

 

He never took into account Charles’ neighbor in that equation.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something about rainy days that sometimes just gets me real down. I'm feeling so sluggish and tired and it's just really...BLAH.
> 
> I swear I'm not like this normally. Guahhh...

First thought he had of the building was: _there’s no way Charles lives in this shit-hole of an apartment._ Second was: _bastard gave me the wrong address._

 

Granted, it wasn’t exactly that bad (it was a good ten times better than his own apartment), but he had formed the opinion that Charles Xavier, his rich twin, would be living somewhere far more up-market than this city apartment right by the universities. He had thought that Charles would be living in some penthouse up in some fancy five-star hotel, but instead, this place looked more like a hostel for college students than well-off, high society boys.

 

Wesley hadn’t formed too much of an opinion on Charles yet, though he couldn’t help but jump to assumptions when he noticed that his twin had his own bloody trust fund, but he felt surprised by his brother’s chosen accommodation.

 

He brushed off his line of thought as he stepped out of the rain and into the building. He scanned the corridors in search of an office and spotted it down at the very end. Right beside the office, there was an open counter where there was another door behind it that led into the office. It was empty.

 

After dropping his duffel bag onto the floor, he rang the service bell and rummaged around his pockets for the letter of confirmation – inheritor to anything and everything than once belonged to Charles Xavier – Harold gave to him to show to the landlord. The door leading into the office clicked open, shortly followed by a slight gasp.

 

‘Charles?’

 

It took Wesley two seconds for him to realize that the man behind the counter was speaking to him. Then it took him another two seconds for him to realize – oh, that’s right; we look alike.

 

The old man looked as though he was seeing a ghost, and he looked both afraid and thrilled at the prospect, which was not quite an odd combination. Before Wesley could send the landlord into an accidental early grave, he opened his mouth to clarify.

 

‘No, actually, I’m his brother; twin.’ He held out a crumpled letter and slid it across the wooden surface for the man to read.

 

The landlord, looking shaken and now just a touch fearful, took the letter and brought his reading glasses up from where it perched in his breast pocket. It was not two seconds later when apprehension made way for quiet acknowledgement then on to utter surprise.

 

‘Wesley Gibson?’ The man began as he lowered the paper fractionally to peer more closely at him. ‘Charles never mentioned you.’ He looked quietly suspicious of that.

 

He shrugged. ‘We were separated, apparently. I didn’t have a clue until some lawyer came up to me about that.’

 

The man gave a slow, understanding nod of his head as he put the letter back down between them. ‘My condolences.’

 

See, unlike that dickwad, Harold, Wesley could actually believe the man’s sincerity for his loss, not that it was much to begin with, considering that he had never known or met Charles. And to think that they used to be connected at the hip.

 

‘You’ll be wanting his keys, then?’ The man asked as he strolled back into his office without waiting for a prompt and spoke loud enough to be heard above his clattering of things.

 

‘Yes. Please,’ he added hastily as he picked up the letter and refolded it back to fit into his pocket once more.

 

‘The man is prone to losing them, you know,’ he said above the rummage of things above his desk, ‘I’ve never met an individual who seemed so grounded, yet had their heads constantly up in the clouds. Odd fellow he was, but very likeable.’

 

There was an opening and closing of drawers from inside the room, a flutter of papers followed by a jingle of keys. The man came back out with a folder and a spare key that led into Charles’ apartment. Before he gave the keys, the man put the papers between them and said, ‘there is another one and a half month left to the lease.’ He furrowed his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Charles had called me to discuss a renewal of his term on the day he passed.’

 

Wesley almost snorted out in cynicism, but he kept himself in check as the man pushed the papers towards him and laid a key on top. ‘This is the last key; please look after it.’ It was new, shiny, and it gave his story about Charles constantly losing his keys some credit.

 

He was about to ask the man for his name, but stopped himself; he had never been one to form connections over something this small and it was unlikely he’d stay for longer than he needed to sign off the lease and clear everything out of the apartment. So instead, he thanked the man, picked up the key, the papers concerning the lease, and his duffel bag before he made his way towards the stair that would eventually lead up to the sixth floor.

 

Wesley was well aware that the man had been constantly watching him up until he stepped into the stairwell.

 

The door leading into the apartment was a faded cream, but there was nothing outside, apart from the number plate, to say that this was the abode of one Charles Xavier. It looked ordinary, nondescript, which was something he had been certain someone of Charles’ standing would not settle for. Again, he was surprised that he was proved wrong once again. It was weird.

 

When he stepped into the apartment, he almost thought the place had been previously ransacked, until he realized that it was just _organized chaos_. There were papers, books, clippings all over the living room table, all over the kitchen island counter and even all over the seats of the apartment. There were more papers and pages tacked onto the walls, on the doors, stuck on the fridge with a magnet and even taped onto the windows. Wesley had never been one for cleanliness but even he thought this was way over the top.

 

He didn’t know where to start.

 

 _Holy shit, and Cathy thought_ I _was bad…_

 

He closed the door and locked it behind him, then he nudged his way inside and dropped his bag onto the arm of the couch. Wesley picked up a few papers and tried to make sense of what he was reading. They looked like an essay, and a few diagrams here and there told him that it involved something about DNA or had something do to with biology and science. He put the papers back down when every third word was something he either couldn’t pronounce or didn’t understand. There was a good reason he barely managed to get a pass in science back in high school, and an even better one when he decided to drop it as soon as he could.

 

Not knowing what else to do in this place – it was weird to be going around touching other people’s belongings even though they were technically his, now – he began to put the papers into piles. None of them were in order; there was no way he could make enough sense out of them to arrange them properly.  If they had been numbered, then it would make things easier. As it were, all the papers were left in one pile, the books in another, the newspaper clippings next to them and with miscellaneous ones put into a mixed heap.

 

Now that most of the mess was out of the way, the place was starting to look more like a proper apartment rather than a whirlwind of books and papers. He took notice the picture frames and the photographs left here and there. There were a few of him – no, of _Charles_ – standing next to a blonde. Girlfriend, maybe? There were a couple more that held a scattering of friends and other people in each of them, but the more common ones involved either the blonde, or a dark haired man who looked more suited to a killer than an acquaintance. Wesley put them down; this wasn’t his life to ponder over.

 

Just as he was about to start on the bedroom, the sound of a key being inserted into the lock caught his attention and he tensed, one hand shooting straight for his gun. He took in two deep breaths as he flattened himself on the wall and inched his way closer to the front door. As the doorknob turned and came open, Wesley nudged the door back shut and listened to the bewildered ‘ _what the fuck’_ from the other side.

 

While keeping a good secure grip on his gun, he called out, ‘who is it?’ then moved away from the door, a good four feet from where he last stood.

 

There was short silence, followed by, ‘who are you and what are you doing in Charles’ apartment?’

 

A few thoughts came to mind and for a split second, he wondered if perhaps the man on the other side of the door was a friend of Charles – he has a key, after all – but he didn’t want to make that random assumption. ‘None of your fucking business.’ He stepped away again, careful never to keep to the same spot after speaking.

 

Without warning, the door burst open. Before he even got the muzzle pointed at the man’s head, there was already a knife at his throat. He was silently impressed, though just the slightest bit freaked out; how did the man even know where he was standing? Lucky guess, maybe?

 

The man faltered, surprise evident in his eyes and obvious in the way the knife was no longer digging into the neck of his leather jacket. Wesley took advantage of that and maneuvered his way out of the man’s reach, closer to the window. He recognized this man; he was in a few of the photographs around the apartment. But regardless of that, he was still going to keep his gun out.

 

‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,’ Wesley couldn’t help but say as he eyed the man carefully while he fingered the small cut in his jacket ( _better it than me_ ) and watched as the Swiss army knife slid back into its compartment and was hidden away out of sight.

 

‘For a moment, yes, but I know there’s an explanation to this,’ he said as he took the keys from the door, closed it behind him and locked it. Wesley didn’t feel comfortable keeping to the same room as the stranger but he supposed that if their roles had been reversed, he might just want some answers, too.

 

‘I’m only going to tell you three things,’ he said as he began counting off on his free hand. ‘One; I’m not Charles, I’m his twin. Two; everything that belongs to him now belongs to me. Three; if you don’t believe me, then feel free to contact the lawyer that hounded me about this.’ Technically four things, if anybody counted.

 

The man seemed quietly tense as he absorbed the information and disregarded the gun that was still aimed at his chest. Wesley wondered why he seemed so calm about it, and then wondered if his initial thought about the man being a killer wasn’t unfounded.

 

‘You’re his twin,’ the stranger eventually said.

 

Wesley snorted and fought back the urge to roll his eyes. _Way to notice the obvious._ ‘Yes. Why; you don’t see the resemblance?’

 

The man ignored the sarcastic bite as he took in Wesley’s appearance, then looked around the apartment and eyed the stack of papers with something like dismay. ‘Charles didn’t know about you.’

 

‘I doubted he did. I only knew about him some odd days ago.’

 

He nodded, as though coming to some sort of conclusion that Wesley wasn’t aware of. ‘You can put the gun away; I have no intention of hurting you.’

 

Wesley lowered his gun, but kept it at his side, just in case. The man sat on the couch and began to rifle through the papers, pulling pages out and leaving it to the side. It wasn’t until some minutes later that he realized that the other was putting them _in order_.

 

‘What’s your relation to Charles?’ He eventually asked once he was certain that the need to fight or flight was no longer necessary, though he remained wary, especially since the man didn’t even seem put off that there was a loaded gun in close proximity to him. There could be any number of reasons why people would become comfortable around weapons, but the two main reasons involved either being a killer or being a cop.

 

‘I’m Erik; his next-door neighbor,’ he said without looking up as he continued his task of putting the papers in order. ‘And you are?’

 

‘Wesley; long-lost twin brother, apparently.’

 

Erik snorted.

 

Again, Wesley found himself questioning what he knew (or didn’t know) about Charles. Currently, he wondered how Charles found himself in company with a man such as Erik; they don’t seem to follow the same cliques. But then again, everything about Charles is just one surprising fact after another.

 

‘How long will you be staying?’

 

Wesley shrugged, a vague answer at best.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so…FRUSTRATEDDDD!!!!

The first thing he thought of when he woke up in a foreign environment was: _where the fuck am I_? The second was: _why does this bed smell like tea?_

 

Wesley quickly replayed the previous day in his head as he lay on the bed and was able to conclude how he went from his dump of an apartment in Chicago to a student hostel in San Francisco. Well, not really a student hostel, but from the size of the place combined with the universities located on all sides, it might as well be.

 

He sat up, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, rubbed the sleep away from his face and tried to wipe the image of his dead father from his eyes. They had the same eyes.

 

_Fuck._

 

His hands shook as he reran the first and last conversation he shared with the man – the man whom he had thought killed his father but had unwittingly betrayed in the end. It felt bizarre to feel something this strong for a man he hardly knew and Wesley began to question whether he knew anything to begin with. No, most definitely not. The only thing he knew was how to get played for a fool and how to get strung along like a puppet.

 

Outside, a car honked and broke his thoughts in a loud shatter. He swore colorfully as he pushed himself off the bed and began his day.

 

The morning was spent outside of the apartment – getting food, getting cardboard boxes and pitching a call from a payphone to Harold to ask about the investigation. He didn’t get far.

 

In the afternoon, he used his time putting Charles’ belongings into the boxes, taping them up, labeling them and shoving them into a corner to deal with later. Wesley went through three boxes before he realized that he didn’t know what else to do with the rest of the things around the apartment. What were you supposed to do with the belongings of a dead person of whom you hardly knew? His father was one thing; the man owned very little, but Charles was a pack-rat; his apartment was small but it was filled to the brim.

 

The couch wasn’t very comfortable. It was lumpy with tea stains dotted here and there and all over one arm on both sides, as if somebody had a teapot and decided it would be a great idea to pour it on the couch instead of a teacup. It was worse than that piece of shit armchair he had back in his apartment, but he figured there ought to be some amount of sentimental value in it, though he had no clue what it was.

 

On the coffee table sat a few of the photo frames and a small stack of photographs. Without thinking much of it, he picked one up and went over to his duffle bag. After rummaging around a few of the pockets, he pulled out a cut-up picture of his father (the other half containing a stranger and Sloan was scissored into pieces then burned in a trash can) and put it side-by-side on the glass. They had the same eyes.

 

His hands began to shake again as he put them both down and pulled his wallet out from his jeans. After a quick look, he was able to wrangle out the only picture he had of his mother and of himself. It was wrinkled, frayed, folded in odd spaces and barely kept together with an old bit of cello-tape. Wesley pieced them all together and stared.

 

This was what his family would’ve looked like.

 

They had the same eyes.

 

He chewed on his bottom lip as he tried to blink the sudden tears away. Questions upon questions popped into his mind: why did this have to happen to him? Why couldn’t he have a normal life? Is it impossible for him to have one decent thing going for him?

 

If his mother hadn’t died of cancer earlier on, would he have been happier? If his father hadn’t joined the Fraternity, would they have stayed together? If he and Charles hadn’t been separated, would it have been just them against the world?

 

If, if, if, just one if after another, useless questions that held no answers; that can’t be answered.

 

_...Fuck…_

 

He gingerly put the photos down and covered his eyes as he sank back onto the couch. He wanted, so much, to know what it would’ve been like – to be normal, to be free, to be a part of something good.

 

That night, Wesley slept on the couch, and realized that it wasn’t actually that terrible.

 

\--

 

She was perhaps one of the craziest, bitchiest, wittiest, damn sexiest woman he has ever had the pleasure of meeting. Didn’t matter that he can’t count on more than two hands of how many women he knew, what mattered was that she was the best, and at one point, she had been his and he had been hers.

 

Her name was Fox.

 

Wesley wasn’t under the impression that it was even her real name, but he couldn’t think of her as anybody else but Fox. It suited her, personified her and she acted every bit as her name suggested. She was sly, sharp, quick, smooth and wild.

 

He wondered, at more than one point, if what they had was more than just a simple teacher/student relationship, or if she was just humoring him because he was a pathetic bastard who hadn’t the foggiest clue of his legacy and who probably won’t ever get anything remotely close to that kind of kiss ever again. But that was who she was; a mystery.

 

And he missed her.

 

His heart ached. No, not just his heart, but every part that she punched, kicked and bullied into submission. She was ruthless, but within reason. Wesley figured that she probably wouldn’t even pay a single whit of attention to him if she hadn’t thought he was capable. But he wondered what she saw in him that he couldn’t even see for himself; Wesley Allan Gibson was a typical nobody. So who is he now?

 

_Fuck’s sakes, I can’t believe I’m going through a fucking midlife crisis, now._

 

\--

 

Charles Francis Xavier.

 

Who is Charles Francis Xavier?

 

He is the only son of Brian and Sharon Xavier.

 

_What? How the fuck does that work?_

 

He was born in New York City, attended his university studies at Harvard and Oxford, took up Genetics, biophysics, psychology and received a PhD for all three. He was a professor at Columbia University and _a fucking genius._

 

_Well, shit, would’ve been nice if he spared me some of that intellect, too._

 

Wesley flipped through the rest of the papers he gathered on his twin brother but couldn’t muster much of anything else. Though, he also learnt that his twin was fond of alcohol and lots of women. That little tidbit brought a snark of a smile on his face.

 

But those were just facts; who was Charles really? Was he a good man? A kind man? Was he a charitable person or was he a cheapskate?

 

And not just that, how is he both the son of the Xavier family and Cross’? Was there a switch somewhere? A mistake made along the way? An accidental pick-up of the wrong kid? Whose family did Wesley belong to? Or did he no longer belong anywhere since both sides are dead and gone?

 

But most importantly, who _exactly_ is Wesley Allan Gibson?

 

Heir to the Xavier fortune? Son of the late Fraternity member, Cross? Account Manager? Assassin? All of the above or none?

 

Wesley shoved the papers back in his duffle bag and threw himself onto the bed, trying to get rid of the headache that was mercilessly pounding the inside of his brain to pieces. It was all too much, and it was all too confusing, and he had no fucking clue what was going on, what was going to happen and what he was going to do from now on.

 

_Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?_

 

He wanted to scream, as if it would solve all of his problems and make it go away.

 

\--

 

Someone was knocking on his door.

 

His bedroom door.

 

Wesley shot out of bed, pulled out the gun from where he had hidden it just under the mattress and aimed it where he thought the head might be.

 

‘It’s Erik.’

 

He exhaled noisily and kicked the door with his boot. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

 

‘Charles’ things.’

 

‘What about them?’ He asked as he put the gun down on the cluttered desk, noted the time – it was a quarter to nine – and pulled on a wrinkled shirt that hadn’t been washed for at least a week. It was starting to reek.

 

‘If you don’t want it, then leave it to somebody who does.’

 

Wesley could hear the boxes being moved around from the other side. Only after he made sure his gun was loaded and ready and tucked between his shirt and pants did he leave the semi-dark bedroom behind him.

 

‘What do _you_ want with Charles’ things?’ He leaned on the door jamb with crossed arms and watched as Erik put one box on top of the other and picked them up with little to no effort. Not that they were heavy in the first place; just bulky.

 

‘I’ll keep the papers, and the books, but Raven would want the rest,’ he said as he exited the apartment and strolled to the one next door. Wesley followed straight after his heels.

 

‘Who’s Raven?’

 

‘His sister.’

 

Wesley tripped, caught himself on the frame, cursed his untied shoe laces and was tempted to just knife them right off. But wait, hold on a minute.

 

_Back the fuck up._

 

‘Charles has a sister?’ _Does that mean that I…_

 

‘Not by blood,’ he put the boxes down and went back to get the last one.

 

 _Doesn’t answer_ any _of my fucking questions, at all._

 

‘I don’t understand,’ he paused at the door, unsure how to file this extra information away. Erik stared at him with a raised eyebrow but didn’t say more as he picked up the last box and returned back to his own apartment. The door shut behind him without so much as a fucking thank you.

 

But seriously.

 

Raven Xavier? Sister to Charles Xavier? Daughter to Brian and Sharon Xavier?

 

No, not by blood. So what does that mean? Adopted, then? Was Raven the real daughter to the Xavier family? Was she the true heir to the Xavier fortune? If so, why did Harold find him instead of her?

 

_What?_

 

Without fully thinking it through, he quickly grabbed a jacket, his wallet and rushed out of the apartment to the nearest payphone. He squeezed in before a business man could snatch it, and he wasn’t even remotely apologetic as he picked up the receiver and started jabbing at the numbers. He had to try again when he realized he hadn’t put in any coins yet. Finally, after shoving in a handful of quarters, the phone began to ring.

 

Third ring in, a man picked up.

 

‘This is Harold Smith speaking.’

 

‘What do you know about Charles Xavier’s sister?’

 

A pause, then a confused, ‘who is this?’

 

‘It’s Wesley,’ he snapped, ‘what do you know about Charles Xavier’s sister?’

 

‘Oh, Wesley, hello,’ the sound of papers being rummaged around filled his ears and he tried not to yell at the man to hurry the fuck up and answer his fucking questions. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Charles Xavier is an only child.’

 

‘No sister? Not even one who isn’t related by blood?’

 

‘Well,’ more papers being tossed around, ‘Sharon Xavier, the mother of Charles Xavier, _did_ remarry. Kurt Marko, his name was, and he had a son named Cain, but there’s no sister that I’m aware of.’

 

‘Adopted, maybe?’

 

A hum, followed by drawers and cabinets being opened and closed. ‘No records to state such a thing.’

 

‘No records…’ he muttered to himself, uncaring if Harold heard him or not, ‘I don’t understand…’

 

‘Was there anything else you wanted to know?’

 

Wesley snapped out of his panicked daze and listened to an automated tone asking for more coins. He shook his head, then said, ‘no – wait, yes, did you get the autopsy reports, yet?’

 

The man sighed. ‘No, it’s still undergoing some investigation, but as soon as I’m able, I’ll get it for you.’

 

‘Right, thanks,’ he hung up and exited the payphone, ignored the sneer from the business man in the booth next to his as he walked down the lane with his thoughts buzzing all around his head.

 

What was going on?

 

Who’s Raven?

 

Wesley picked up the pace and ran back to the apartment building, but rather than going straight for his own, he went to the one next door and banged at it. Occasionally, he threw in a kick until Erik opened it.

 

‘What?’ The man snapped, uncaring that he was currently shirtless and his hair was still dripping wet from his interrupted shower.

 

He ignored all of it as he asked the question that’s been bugging him for the past half hour and will probably continue to do so until he got some answers.

 

‘Who’s Raven Xavier?’

 

Erik raised an eyebrow and stared at him with a cool expression, arms crossed. Then he answered, ‘I never said she was an Xavier.’

 

_Well, then, that answers one thing…_

 

_And absolutely fuck-all._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And DISAPPOINTEDDDD!!!!


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning found him thinking upon waking up was: _he’s got a nice body._ And the second thought straight after that involved a few choice curses and: _fuck, did I just dream about Charles’ next-door neighbor?_

 

Wesley decided the first order of business was a cold, cold shower. By the time he was done and more or less ready to begin the day, he realized that he had suddenly acquired five extra guests lounging around in his apartment.

 

_What the fuck?_

 

They all stared at him with curiosity with their keen eyes and began walking towards him. He noted the opened window and wondered if that was because of him or if it has always been opened but he had only taken notice of it now. Sloppy move.

 

He stepped back when one of them came too close for comfort. One of them meowed.

 

Almost on cue, a knock happened on his door.

 

‘If that’s you, Erik, just let yourself in; you’ve got the damn keys.’

 

The sound of a key being shoved into the lock drew all of the cat’s attention and Wesley used that lapse in concentration to open the window wider so they might leave. No luck.

 

‘I see you’ve met the rest of the family,’ Erik said as he stepped inside. Wesley watched with a mix of horror and fascination as all the cats curled around the man’s long, lean legs and mewled in greeting.

 

He had never been much of a pet-person; Annabelle didn’t exactly belong to him, so she didn’t count. The only few reasons she’d ever be friendly with him was when she wanted a feed, when she wanted someone to scratch behind her ears and when he poured her some energy drink that got her buzzing around the apartment for rats for the rest of the day.

 

‘They’ve been missing a while,’ Erik commented as he strolled into the kitchen, pulled open a cupboard beneath the sink to pick out a couple of mismatched bowls and a bag of cat food.

 

‘What a shame,’ he bit out sarcastically and watched as the cats made themselves at home and purred as Erik fed them a generous portion. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll get them off my hands?’

 

‘They’re Charles’; not mine.’

 

He clapped his hands together and forced on a bright smile and a chipper tone. ‘Well, congratulations! They’re now yours,’ then his smile dropped. ‘Now pack it up and get them out of my apartment.’

 

Erik scoffed. ‘This has been their home for years; this will always be the first place they go to.’

 

‘And when I leave?’

 

He shook his head as he put the cat food back under the sink and closed the cupboard door. ‘I suspect they’ll continue to come here, until the next owner forces them out.’

 

Wesley shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose.’ Besides, cats are sturdy creatures; they can live off the streets and make do.

 

Erik stared, and he wondered if he was being judged. So what if he wasn’t much of a cat-person, or hell, even a people-person? Did it ever matter, in the end?

 

Eventually, Erik sighed, like Wesley was just another disappointment in life, or just a disappointing shadow of a dead man. He tried not to bristle as the other started towards the door. ‘Raven is coming by in the afternoon,’ he said as he twisted and pulled the doorknob, ‘around 1 o’clock.’

 

Wesley gave a long suffering sigh and wondered why this was getting progressively more and more complicated. ‘Oh, joy.’

 

His plan had been to clear out the apartment, get rid of the lease from his name and move on; not make friendly with the neighbors and make nice with his deceased brother’s not-sister.

 

‘You don’t want to meet her?’ Slight confusion and mild surprise visible in his eyes.

 

He cocked his head to the side and felt the tension leave his neck in loud cracks. ‘Never implied I wanted to. Just because I asked about her, it doesn’t immediately mean that I want to know her.’

 

Erik gave a noncommittal hum. ‘I’ll cancel, then.’

 

Wesley huffed and wished his conscience died alongside his father. ‘Fine, whatever, I’ll meet her,’ she seemed like a nice girl, and even if she wasn’t related to Charles by blood, she deserved the inheritance more than some dead-beat like him from the street. He ought to talk to her, at the very least. It usually paid to be honest.

 

Well, no, not usually; he’d more likely end up getting punched in the face or in the gut whenever he was being honest about anything.

 

‘1 o’clock,’ Erik repeated in confirmation.

 

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll put on a spot of tea then, shall I?’

 

Erik raised an eyebrow at the accent, but said nothing more as he left the apartment behind and returned to his own. Wesley could’ve sworn he saw the smallest hint of a smirk on the man’s lips, but he brushed the thought aside as he stared at the cats that were now making themselves comfortable all over the couch. There was even one resting in the empty spot on the bookshelf and another lying on top of the television set.

 

If this was what his life has come to, maybe he should’ve let Fox shoot him in the head when he had the chance.

 

\--

 

When Erik came by again later that afternoon, it was a quarter to one. He didn’t even knock as he came in, just unlocked the door and began talking to Wesley about what he should and shouldn’t do, what he should and shouldn’t say. Or, more simply:

 

‘Don’t speak.’

 

Wesley raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘And why the fuck not?’

 

Erik smirked, as if he just proved a point. ‘Because of that.’

 

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. ‘I’m not Charles; I won’t even pretend to be, so you’re gonna have to get used to that fact.’

 

The smirk left his face, replaced with an expression that seemed like a cross between grief, disappointment and hurt. ‘I have, but Raven won’t be as quick to recover.’

 

He wondered what kind of person Raven was. She was beautiful, surely, on par with Cathy in terms of looks. From what he got in the photos, she shared the same blue eyes as Charles, and once more, Wesley began to question her relationship with Charles and the Xavier family. There ought to be more, and he wanted to find out.

 

Desperately.

 

Erik settled on the armchair, and immediately, two cats jumped onto his lap and purred in greeting. When Wesley sat down on the far end of the couch, they remained as they were, having learnt that all they were going to get from him was a shove off his legs. And who said animals weren’t smart?

 

It was barely five minutes later that they both heard the sound of heels stopping in front of their door. Confusingly, for Wesley, nobody knocked.

 

Erik’s hand had paused over a cat’s ears, and it meowed pathetically as it tried to get the man to resume. Eventually he did, but he wasn’t focused, his eyes stared unseeingly to the side towards the door but he made no move to go towards it.

 

Wesley kept his eyes trained on the shadow beneath the door, watched as it swayed from side to side, as if uncertain. Then he watched as the shadow disappeared and the sound of heels faded to the distance. It came back, then walked away once more, as if pacing. After the fifth pass, he stood, but Erik beat him to the door.

 

‘Give me a moment with her.’

 

He shrugged as went back to sitting on the couch. Once Erik was out of the door, speaking in hushed tones with the person on the other side, he quickly checked the knife he had hidden away on the inside of his boot. More for his peace of mind than a precaution, though it didn’t hurt to be on the safe side.

 

After a few minutes, a woman walked in – blonde, tall, with the same bright blue eyes as Charles, same as himself. He shook his head to ward off his confusion and carefully stood from where he sat.

 

Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was slightly agape, as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing; a ghost? A memory? Her brother?

 

She cleared her throat and managed to slip on a watery smile and spoke in an equally shaky voice. ‘Hi, I’m Raven.’

 

‘Wesley.’

 

Erik stood in the kitchen while the both of them shared the couch, though Raven seemed very careful to sit as far away as possible, yet retain a respectful stance. She was probably scared out of her wits, and hell, he didn’t blame her for looking like she wanted to freak out. For all she knew, Wesley might just be Charles playing one hell of a stupid joke. But no, this was no joke; far from it.

 

‘Well, then, since this can’t get any more awkward, I’m just going to be blunt about it.’

 

A curt laugh escaped her but her eyes twinkled in humor as she nodded. ‘Sure, you want to ask about Charles?’

 

He knew what he was about to ask was going to rip open the barely healed-over wound again, but there was no other way to go about it; no time to dawdle. ‘Do you know how he died?’ He realized he should’ve been a bit gentler than that, if the menacing glare he got from Erik was any indication of it.

 

Her breath stuttered and her complexion grew pale.

 

Forget about ripping apart a still-fresh wound; he might as well have stabbed a few more in. With that kind of subtlety, he might as well have been the one to murder Charles right in front of her very eyes.

 

_Shit…_

 

But she forced her voice to work, to answer. But as she spoke, her voice was only a whisper. ‘Suicide…’

 

‘Is that what you’ve been told?’

 

Raven nodded numbly, and he noted the way her knuckles have turned white, as though she was fighting to keep herself together. In the kitchen, he watched as Erik glared at the world outside, angry at him, probably. Or just everything; something he could relate to. If Wesley was less vain, he would’ve felt pity for them. As it were, he didn’t even have enough for himself.

 

‘Do you believe them?’

 

She shook her head, and her eyes welled up with tears that spilled down her cheeks. He looked away and afforded her a moment to wipe her face clean with the sleeve of her light jacket. ‘Charles would never…’

 

Wesley nodded, because it fit. Charles was living a good life; he had no reason, none what so ever, to kill himself like he had nothing left in the world to live for. If anybody had a good reason to die, that would be Wesley. It was impossible, and yet…

 

A broken gasp escaped Raven as she stood and immediately headed towards the bathroom to lock herself in. He knew intimately what it felt like to lose something one held close, but he imagined it would be five times as hard for her, since she had known Charles the longest, ever since their younger years. On a certain level, this probably felt like betrayal of the highest level.

 

‘You shouldn’t have asked her that,’ Erik said as he took her vacated seat and stared at him with a hardened gaze.

 

Wesley frowned as he turned his attention away from the grieving sister to the man in front of him. ‘Why? Do you believe he—’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Then?’

 

‘She wasn’t ready.’

 

He snorted. ‘Trust me; when it comes to dealing with death, hardly anybody is ever ready.’ The only ones who ever are, are the ones who pull the trigger, or give that final stab that takes the last heartbeat away.

 

‘And you speak from experience?’

 

Wesley found himself looking down at his own hands, hands that have maimed, tortured, destroyed and killed. ‘More than you know.’

 

\--

 

Wesley knew something was wrong when he registered warmth coming from an outside source. It was the middle of the night, and it was usually nippy; didn’t matter if he always went to bed without a shirt on, either.

 

He snapped to attention, his eyes staring straight at the dark figure sitting on the edge of his bed, looming over him, while one hand shooting straight for the knife under his pillow. He frowned and flipped the switch for the lamp on when he realized it was just his crazy neighbor, not some homicidal killer. Not that they weren’t connected in some way. ‘Why the fuck are you in here?’

 

Erik stank of alcohol, though it didn’t look as though he was drunk, probably not even tipsy; not a hint of a flush on his cheeks, but this was an uncharacteristic move, especially since they hardly knew each other.

 

‘You look just like him; exactly like him,’ he said, completely ignoring the question aimed at him, as he raised a slow hand to the man’s face.

 

Wesley grabbed hold of the wrist before the fingertips could touch skin. ‘Watch it,’ he warned, applying a bit of force behind the touch, ‘I’m not Charles. I thought you knew that.’

 

Erik snapped, his eyes gaining back a bit of clarity. ‘I know that. Of course I know that,’ he whispered harshly as he pulled his arm back. He lowered his head and abruptly stood, making towards the opened bedroom door. ‘My apologies for disturbing your rest.’

 

‘How quaint,’ he sneered and wondered if the man was prone to shifts in his personality; this was too fucked up, not to mention that it was four in the fucking morning, too.

 

The door closed, and only after he was able to register that the front door of his apartment was also closed, Wesley flopped back on the bed and tried to figure out what the hell just happened. He decided to chalk it up to it being a very strange, very fucked up dream.

 

And to Charles having Erik for a fucked up neighbor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m feeling awfully discouraged. I’m starting to not like where I’m going with this (despite my happy start) and it’s a frustrating emotion to be going through.
> 
> I need to pull myself together.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes, he found himself thinking: _what would my life have been like if I were an Xavier._ And then later: _he would make a better Wesley than me._

 

As the weeks progressed (there was still a little over a month to the lease left), he slowly made himself more at home in that tiny, little San Francisco apartment. The longer he stayed, the more he began to notice the little things that tied him to Charles – the small similarities that made it obvious that they shared a blood blond.

 

It wasn’t just the shared looks, especially the eyes, but it was in the way they write, especially how they loop the letters _g_ , _j_ , and _y_ and how their letters _z_ has a dash right across it, like with the number _7_. Their penmanship would start off neat, and then progress to being messy to almost illegible. _Chicken scratch_.

 

They didn’t share the same taste in clothing, because while he liked leather jackets (something he learned to appreciate the feel and smell of), Charles preferred cardigans and sleeveless vests. He did, however, find one random black leather jacket tucked at the very back of the closet collecting dust. Wesley decided to keep it for himself, a quiet smirk on his face. It looked new, but as soon as he put it on, he realized that it was quite well worn. Something to ponder over.

 

Also looking through the closet, he couldn’t help but notice the sheer amount of sweaters Charles had bought over the years. It was ridiculous and his mind immediately went back to the Fraternity and he wondered if Charles had one or two that was made from the headquarters’ textile mill. It was possible; they weren’t just a front, it was also a business.

 

When he raided the medicine cabinet, he found a prescription for anti-anxiety pills, and he half-wondered if maybe Charles had the same condition as him, the same as Cross. But the expiration date was from well over three months ago and it didn’t look as if they’ve been touched since then. It was still fresh, barely even a quarter way gone. Maybe they were for something else. Wesley double-checked the rest of the cabinet but found nothing else apart from the standard painkillers, cold and flu medicine, antiseptic, Vaseline and a half-used pack of bandages.

 

Out of curiosity, he lifted the tank lid for the toilet in search of something (anything). There was nothing.

 

But just as he was about to close the lid, upon closer inspection, he found a small, unassuming notebook, wrapped in a clear zip-lock bag tucked in the very corner of the tank. He pulled it out and wondered what secrets Charles had that he wanted to hide away in a place as disgusting as a toilet tank. Not that he didn’t do the exact same thing.

 

_Here we go, then._

 

He leaned back on the bathroom sink, ripped the small book out of the protective bag and opened to the first page where the handwriting was neat and careful.

 

_My name is Charles Xavier, but I know that is not my real identity, the way I know that my mother and father are not my biological parents._

_I am missing a half to a whole and I do not know where it is or where I can begin my search for it. Sometimes, I am near, and others, I am impossibly far._

_I have dreams that do not belong to me, and memories that are not my own. I often wake not knowing who I am, or what I am, or where I am. It takes me a moment to realize how I am, and it takes me twice as long to realize that the name at the very top of my head is not my own._

_My name is not Charles Xavier, my name is W…_

_Sometimes, when I look at myself in the mirror, I see a man that is like me, and at the same time, unlike me. He is my opposite, my other half – the other half that wears leather jackets, that holds a gun, has bloodied hands and an equally bloody face._

_I do not believe in Fate._

_There are times where I awaken and I know I am in the wrong body. I know because I cannot control it. But the moment we share a look in the mirror, there is a moment of recognition that passes our eyes, though before we could reach forward, I snap back to my own limbs._

_I am myself, I am me, I am whole. My life is my own._

_My name is Charles Xavier…_

 

As he read the pages, as he turned deeper and further into the book, the penmanship grew progressively messier and messier until they became a mere scrawl, rushed and panicked, like Charles was slowly losing pieces of himself. He knew the feeling.

 

On the last page, basically on the inside cover of the notebook was a scribbled note. Two words that made Wesley’s heart skip a beat and pound wilder in his chest. This was it – their connection; the final piece that tied them together in an unbreakable knot.

 

_A thousand…_

 

\--

 

Erik was a frequent visitor, mainly because Wesley couldn’t give a rat’s ass about feeding the cats. They crowded outside his windows by the fire escape and yowled pitifully because he’d shut them out and wouldn’t open the windows for them to enter, not even in the pouring rain.

 

_Wasn’t it supposed to be sunny this time of year?_

 

If Erik weren’t there, then Raven would be the one to let them in and feed them – they liked her, too. She came by at least once every two days to visit him, ask him questions, or simply just stare, which was something that unnerved him just a tiny, little bit. She reminded him of the cats, with their big, bright eyes and their curious looks, as if they couldn’t figure out if this was the same Charles or not.

 

Answer: No, but…

 

‘You look just like him,’ she said one day just as he was channel surfing; there was nothing good on to watch.

 

He kept his face carefully blank as he turned to her and left the TV playing on a music channel. He noted her posture, how she was leaning towards him; eager. He stared into her eyes and saw pain, as well as hope. He looked at her hands, they were loose and comfortable, not like the first time they met where she was on the verge of falling apart and her white knuckles were the only thing keeping her together – a vast improvement. He didn’t want to deal with somebody breaking down when he was still on the road to recovery himself.

 

Wesley looked away and went back to channel surfing. ‘Yeah, Erik said the same thing as well.’

 

Raven shifted in her seat but he paid her no mind as he finally settled on watching the news.

 

Petrol prices were soaring, which also meant an increase in food prices, goods and services taxes. Minimum wage was at an all time low and everybody was fighting for the Labor Party to _do something_ about it. Certain parts of the economy were crashing, but the stocks seemed to be doing well. And who said something good can’t be made from destruction?

 

‘Can I say something?’

 

He shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the TV as a news presenter started on the weather report – tomorrow’s a sunny day. ‘Sure.’

 

‘To Charles.’

 

He snapped his attention to her and gaped. ‘You want me to pretend to be Charles?’ _Of all the stupid—_

 

She looked away with a flash of guilt in her eyes as she bit on her bottom lip, ruining the lipstick and gloss. ‘Just for a little while,’ she said quietly.

 

‘What the fuck? Do you want me to go change into his clothes and make a cup of tea for us, too?’

 

Raven frowned, her stance taking on a defensive turn. ‘You don’t have to be mocking about it.’

 

‘That was a stupid thing to ask for and you know it.’

 

She stood and looked on the verge of angry tears while her fingers closed into a tight fist, ready to punch the living daylights out of Wesley. ‘I can’t help it!’ She screamed at him, ‘I can’t help it if I want some closure!’

 

He jumped to his feet and glared, his nostrils flaring as his heart drummed in his chest. ‘Closure?’ He tossed the remote to the side and ignored it when it clattered to the floor. ‘ _Closure?_ You’re not the only one who wants that, too!’ _For my mother, for my father, for my brother, for my life and to everything I never had but still lost._ ‘You’re not the only one who’s lived, and _loved_ and lost!’

 

Raven backed away, as if slapped. It looked as if she did, from the way her cheeks reddened in a mixture of anger and shame. Her tears spilled and her sobbing grew loud as she crumbled to the floor, her face hidden away her in hands. She rocked back and forth, a small comfort to herself.

 

His rage left him as he watched her cry her sorrows for a man who wasn’t even related to her by blood. The connection they must’ve shared…Wesley couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He felt ridden with guilt.

 

He crouched beside her, and tentatively placed a hand on her weeping shoulder. ‘I’m not who you want me to be. I’m sorry.’

 

_You apologize too much._

_Shut up, Fox; this time I actually_ have _something to apologize about._

‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she repeated the words like a broken mantra as she continued to sway in accordance to her hiccups. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry. I never meant to compare you to him. I’m sorry. I miss him so much.’

 

Wesley lost track of her words after that, slurred and mumbled they’ve become. Her voice broke as she cried, but despite that, she continued to speak, long after she no longer made any sense. He let her cry and he let her hold onto him with desperate fingers and frantic shakes.

 

She called him ‘Charles’ once or twice. He didn’t mind. She mentioned Erik, too, but he doubted it was aimed for him, specifically.

 

They both of them stayed huddled on the uncomfortable floor of the apartment, even when his knees started to protest and his toes have grown numb. They continued to stay there even after the skies have dimmed and the streets have alighted with artificial light. After she had quieted down, she had fallen asleep in his half-embrace with smears of makeup lining down her face. He left her to Charles’ bedroom and settled on the couch for the night. It was then he noticed how much it smelled like tea, like old books and cats, lots of cats.

 

Wesley made sure the cats were out and the window was shut before he fell asleep.

 

\--

 

Erik was…he was crazy, without a doubt. He had a dry sense of humor, but it was something Wesley understood – sarcasm being one of his few traits. He was cunning, intelligent, manipulative, especially during chess – not that Wesley was ever good at it. And now that he thought about it, he didn’t know why he even agreed to playing it in the first place; chess was something Erik and _Charles_ shared, not him and Wesley. Certainly not Wesley. Never Wesley.

 

_I’m not jealous._

 

‘Do you want something to drink?’ Erik asked once he achieved a checkmate. He didn’t wait for an affirmative before he started towards the kitchen.

 

Wesley rubbed his eyes, and wished the sight of a chess set wouldn’t appear from behind his closed eye-lids. ‘If you’ve got beer, that would be great.’

 

‘I have German beer and—’

 

‘Fine by me.’  He’d be glad for any form of alcohol at this point.

 

There was a tap on his shoulder, cold and hard. Wesley turned and took the beer from Erik, who was sipping on a tumbler of scotch, and twisted the cap off with a small grunt. The first sip threw him off, but the second grew on him and the third made his belly flutter in appreciation. It’s been a long time.

 

They started on another game. Wesley, on his own, was bad at it from the very beginning. Add alcohol into the mix and the game turned catastrophic. Erik looked as though he was fighting a smirk and a chuckle throughout the entire time.

 

He was going to lose, that much was obvious, but he didn’t care all that much as long as he could get another drink. ‘Mind if I get another?’ He asked as he held up his empty bottle, already halfway out of his seat.

 

Erik shrugged good-naturedly as he put Wesley’s king in check. ‘Help yourself.’

 

There was more than just German beer in the fridge. He could see a few bottles from the United States and even from the United Kingdom. Not feeling all that patriotic, he took the bottle from the UK instead and popped it open. From beside him, Erik was pouring himself another generous portion of scotch into his glass along with an added cube of ice.

 

‘How did you meet Charles?’ Wesley asked as the man took a quiet sip of his drink. He leaned on the fridge and waited for an answer – he wasn’t too keen on returning to that chess game; he was going to lose anyway.

 

Erik paused, his drink coming dangerously close to tipping over the edge of the rim. It wasn’t until he relaxed his shoulders that Wesley realized that he had been tense throughout the whole evening. ‘I was looking for something, and he found me instead.’

 

He hummed as he took another gulp of beer down his throat and watched as the other took one quiet sip after another, lost in his own thoughts.

 

Erik was…he was attractive, he’ll give him that. Concerning looks, there was nothing about Erik that came remotely close to Fox, unless factoring in the way they held themselves; confident, aloof, and completely out of reach. Everything else, though…

 

He was staring, quite blatantly, and yes, he was aware.

 

Erik noticed and smirked. ‘Are you trying to read my thoughts?’

 

‘What?’

 

‘Nothing.’ He looked away and quickly drank the rest of his scotch and put the glass in the sink. ‘Shall we finish the game? It’ll be my last for the night.’

 

‘It’s your win; no way I can trump that.’ It would take years and years and years before he could match Erik’s level of play, and since half the rules go straight over his head anyway, it’s going to take twice, if not three times, as long.

 

‘Fine,’ he said as he began to pack away the chess pieces. He suddenly seemed edgier, Wesley could tell by the taut lines in his shoulders. That turtleneck was doing absolutely nothing to hide what was beneath.

 

He quickly drank the rest of his beer so he could make a quick getaway, but before then… ‘Did you ever find what you were looking for?’

 

Erik paused just as he slipped the chess board back onto its customary spot on the bookshelf. He turned his head towards Wesley but carefully evaded eye contact. ‘Yes and no.’

 

‘Not a very clear answer, is it?’ He said as he tossed the bottle into the rubbish and ignored the loud _clink_ it made when it collided with the other.

 

‘No,’ he huffed as his fingers tightened into a fist, ‘because I didn’t find what I originally sought after, but yes, because I was willing to give it up in spite of everything.’

 

Pale eyes held him in place.

 

_Oh, shit…_

 

_Run now, run now, just run – run, run, run._

 

But he didn’t, even after Erik crowded in his personal space and he was forced to look up to meet the man’s eyes. There was sheer agony, rage, grief, and despair, but above it all, the smallest light of hope.

 

He didn’t run, even as Erik leaned closer and closer still until their lips almost touched.

 

Wesley could taste the scotch in the man’s breath, could smell it surrounding him mixed with his cologne. He closed his eyes and he could feel the warmth of Erik’s body so close to his, could feel the shiver building up in his spine as the man’s breath ghosted over his face, his neck.

 

Then Erik pushed away, his back to Wesley.

 

‘No,’ he rubbed a palm over his face, as if to hide, ‘you’re not good for me. Because you’re broken and so am I.’

 

Wesley fumed, wondered why it felt like he was just cheated out of something good. But anger was a good thing; anger was better than humiliation, so he grabbed it with both hands and held on tight.

 

‘Yeah? Well, fuck you.’ It probably wasn’t the best answer, but he felt justified.

 

He left the apartment, went straight past his own and disappeared into the night. He didn’t come back until the sun was peeking just over the horizon and spent the rest of the day buried under blankets with a knife constantly within reach.

 

Just like that, he went back to his old ways.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret everything!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does nothing make SENSE anymore? Gawd, I hate this.
> 
> It's like the layout suddenly decided to change overnight and I'm thinking, HUH?!

As he signed off the papers concerning the lease to the apartment, he thought to himself quite vehemently: _this isn’t me running away._ But just as he was about to leave the key and everything behind, he realized: _no, for me to run away, I would’ve had to have stopped in the first place._

 

There was a knock on his door, he sighed tiredly.

 

‘Just let yourself in, Erik.’ He had planned to just leave without a trace, but as usual, things always turned out to be slightly more complicated than he originally hoped for. He had also hoped he wouldn’t have to see Erik again, especially after what happened not two nights ago.

 

‘Mr. Gibson? It’s Harold Smith.’

 

He stared at the door and wondered what more the man had to say to him. Unless…

 

Wesley opened the door and stared at the man expectantly. ‘The report?’

 

‘Yes,’ he said as he handed over a thick brown envelop, ‘investigation was a dead-end,’ he snickered at his own joke. The sick fuck… ‘It was a bona fide suicide, sorry about that,’ he said as he brushed away the droplets of rain water from his coat.

 

More than ever now, Wesley wanted to knife the man right in the gut. How the fuck did people like him even get jobs like these? Don’t they need to be of sound mind, or some shit like that? His humor needs to improve, at least. But Wesley ignored it as he took the envelope and refrained from opening it in front of unwanted guests with shifty eyes. ‘Anything else?’

 

Harold’s other hand was holding onto his leather bag, soaked and dripping a puddle on the floor to join with the bigger puddle beneath the man’s feet. Wesley almost wished the man got struck by lightning, but only once he’s left the building, thanks.

 

‘No, that’s all, Mr. Gibson,’ he tipped his rain-soaked hat in farewell and walked away. Wesley fought the urge to take hold of his gun and shoot the man right in the spine. He settled for slamming the door shut instead.

 

He tossed the envelope on top of his packed duffle bag and sank into the couch, the heel of his hands digging into his tired eyes. Did he want to know? Did he want to involve himself more in something that doesn’t need his attention?

 

_Fuck it, just fuck it._

 

Wesley picked it up and ripped it open.

 

The first page gave an introductory to the case and what conclusions were made from the investigation as well as a letter of condolence. He tossed it aside. The second page was the official coroner’s report – detected no illnesses or abnormalities in any of his muscles, organs and bones – no preliminary traces of drugs in the system – alcohol consumption within normal range.

 

Conclusion: Drunken suicide.

 

He shook his head, he couldn’t believe it; Charles had a good life, lived in a good environment, had a stable job with a stable income and had friends and family that _cared_ about him. Suicide was impossible. It was impossible and yet…

 

After the second page came the photographs. Wesley’s heart stopped and started as he stared at his twin, pale and most definitely dead, if the bullet hole between his eyes didn’t already give it away. His body was covered with a thin blanket up to his biceps and Wesley could see a hint of a Y-incision showing beneath the covers on his chest. There was no blood.

 

_Of course there’s no blood; corpses don’t bleed. Remember?_

 

But there had to be more than this. There ought to be more than this. They can’t conclude this as a suicide simply because of a lack of outside evidence. They spent over a week on this and this is all they’ve got? Where was he found? What time did he die?

 

_What gun did he use?_

 

He searched through the rest of the papers, skimmed the lines in hopes it would reveal the model of the gun, but if not that, then at least the bullet. He was on the fifth page when a knock came upon his door and he jumped.

 

‘Wesley? I’m coming in!’

 

He cursed as he quickly gathered the papers in his arms, uncaring if they wrinkled and folded in the wrong places. ‘Wait! Give me a minute! Fuck,’ he muttered the last bit to himself as he shot out from his seat and unzipped his duffle bag.

 

He quickly scurried around to gather the last bits of papers and photographs that floated off before shoving it in. He didn’t want Raven to see. He had absolutely no idea when he started caring about her, but nobody deserved to see their brother, related or otherwise, like that, with a bullet right between the eyes – executioners’ style.

 

_Executioners’ style…_

 

‘Wesley?’ It sounded as if she was fighting back her laughter,’ are you OK?’

 

‘Fine! I’m fine!!’ He picked up the bag and tossed it into the bedroom and slammed the door shut before he went to the front door feeling somewhat out of breath, ‘yes?’

 

Raven laughed and sidestepped him into the living room. ‘I brought some pastries,’ she sang as she put her bags down, one significantly heavier than the other, and went over to the window to let the cats in. They meowed in appreciation and followed her into the kitchen waiting to be fed, purring all the while she pulled out the bowls and divided portions into each of them.

 

‘Yummy…’ it was also then he noticed the signed papers concerning the lease along with the key on the kitchen counter. He yanked it back and hoped she hadn’t noticed them as he shoved them in his pockets. He didn’t know why he cared about what she thought about his leaving. The only thing they had in common was Charles, and even that was stretching it a little bit.

 

Once the cats were given enough food to last them two meals, Raven took hold of his hand and pulled him into the living room to sit on the couch with her. She was smiling brightly (but her eyes showed anxiety) and was jumping on her heels in eager anticipation (fidgeting in worry). Wesley wondered if she had one too many energy drinks before coming here.

 

He raised an eyebrow at her.

 

‘OK, I know this is random,’ she ignored his eye roll, ‘but I’ve got something for you.’

 

‘Yeah?’ Why would Raven even have anything to give to him? The last time she came over, he made her cry. ‘Pastries?’ He guessed as he eyed the small paper bag on the table, a few dark patches here and there to reveal the butter content used to make them. It was a lot.

 

‘No,’ she said with laughter as she put the pastries aside and rummaged through her bag. ‘This,’ she pulled out a thick, heavy book and pushed it towards him. ‘Have a look.’

 

It was a photo album. Both eyebrows were now raised. ‘What for?’

 

‘You’re brothers,’ as if that answered everything. It probably did, but not to any of his questions currently floating around in his head. ‘I figured you might want to see; get to know him better. We can look together.’

 

‘Not much use getting to know a dead brother,’ he flipped through it quickly, it was filled from front to back, right to the very last page – the chronicles of Charles Xavier’s life. It was surprisingly heavy, but if this was what was accumulated over the past 25 years from birth to death, well…Charles was going to be missing living a very full life, then.

 

‘For your own sake, then, so you don’t regret it later.’

 

‘Fine, sure, thanks,’ he said curtly as he closed it and put the book aside, not quite up to looking through memories that didn’t involve him at all. What was the point? But then again, he understood what Raven meant; this might be the only time he’d get to do this. After all, he’s not one to turn back after walking away.

 

‘You need to look at it.’ Her knuckles have turned white again.

 

‘Why?’

 

Her determination was fierce. ‘Because,’ she didn’t elaborate.

 

He huffed as he pulled the book back onto his lap and turned open to the second page in. There was a young Charles in a sailors’ uniform, running towards the camera with a toy plane in hand. Raven pointed at the picture and then at the caption. ‘This was when he was six years old, and this,’ she pointed at the one next to it, ‘is Charles and his mother.’

 

She was a blonde haired beauty, too, with eyes of blue and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. They stood much too far apart to be considered congenial. Maybe they’ve had a bad day.

 

Raven flipped over a few pages and explained them as they moved along. Wesley ignored the way she leaned onto him, like he wasn’t just some stranger who suddenly popped into her life and took over Charles’.  With the way things were going, he might as well have, and it worried him how easily they slotted him into theirs even though he was still practically an outsider despite the familiar face.

 

Eventually, she took a handful of pages and turned, not bothering with the ones they missed. ‘Well, those are a bit boring. What I really want to show you are these,’ she said once they stopped at the photos that showed off his university years.

 

Charles’ hair was similar to his, but longer, parted on the side rather than the middle. He wore his smile as if everything was right with the world and Wesley envied it, envied that carefree expression and lackadaisical posture.

 

There were a few with Raven in it, with the both in them laughing and hugging and pointing at the camera. There were a few more with just Charles, a bottle or a drink in one hand and a two-fingered soldiers’ salute with the other. There were some with Charles and a few strangers, and a couple others that featured him and the cats. There were a few familiar ones he’d seen before, and after a quick look, he realized that the ones that he’d left behind on the living room table were now gone, possibly taken away by Raven the last couple of times she had come to visit him.

 

‘He’s a rubbish flirt,’ she said with a fond smile as she traced a finger along a picture that involved Charles and a woman with two-tone eyes, ‘but he still somehow managed to get all the girls despite the pick-up lines which, by the way, are terrible.’

 

‘Oh, yeah? Tell me one.’ After all, it can’t possibly be worse than his. Not that he’s even got any.

 

She grinned impishly as she turned her body closer to his and focused her attention wholly on him. It unnerved him, especially when she started speaking words and letters he couldn’t understand in an accent that sounded mocking yet genuine.

 

‘EYCL1. Now, if that sounds like a bunch of letters and numbers that make absolutely no sense, worry not; they’re actually a genetic code for your eyes, which I have to say, are utterly _stunning_.’

 

Wesley snorted. ‘You’re shitting me.’

 

‘I shit you not! It works! All the damn time! I swear he cheats,’ she laughed as she quickly flipped over to another page and pointed at a picture of him a little pink in the cheeks, ‘this is when he’s had just two drinks.’

 

‘Not very tolerant, is he?’ He won’t admit that he’s got the same problem with the red face, too – must be a hereditary thing.

 

‘Oh, he is, trust me. He just can’t help but go red in the face after a couple of drinks, same as when he goes out in the sun and stays out for too long. Don’t let his looks fool you; his tolerance for alcohol is extremely high. But this…’ she turned to one of the last few pages and waited as Wesley took in the picture.

 

Charles was wearing a leather jacket, the very same one that had been shoved to the very back of the closet to be left forgotten, with his face serious and the smallest hint of a smirk on the corner of his lips. He wore his hair in a different style, even shorter than usual. And his eyes…

 

It was like looking in a mirror.

 

And it was dated just under a month ago.

 

‘…What?’

 

‘When I saw you, I thought…’ she paused as she pulled the photo album towards her and stared at the picture before turning her gaze towards Wesley. ‘I thought he’d come back, that it was just a joke.’

 

He shook his head in confusion as he stared at the picture again, trying to comprehend. ‘What does it mean?’

 

Her eyes shifted from his and she chewed on her bottom lip in answer. Either she didn’t know, or she had an idea but didn’t want to share it. He didn’t really want to know, either way.

 

Wesley kept his gaze locked with Charles as he turned his mind back to the black notebook he found hidden away in the toilet tank.

 

_My name is not Charles Xavier, my name is W…_

_…my other half…_

 


	7. Chapter 7

It was late in the evening when he decided: _enough’s enough._ But as soon as he stepped out onto the fire escape with his duffle bag over his shoulder, Erik was there, chain-smoking and staring at him expectantly. And he couldn’t help thinking: _of all the stupid, crazy,_ illegal _things that should’ve sent me to jail, I just_ have _to get caught doing something that’s not even remotely close and something which I_ really _want to get away from._

_Fuck’s sake…_

 

Wesley would never admit out loud that he felt as though he was just caught red-handed with a hand in the cookie jar, but his cheeks were doing a mighty good job of trying to prove it without his saying. Thank fuck it was dark now.

 

Erik smirked, letting the cigarette hang from his lips while his fingers continue to thread through the fine hairs of one of the cats. It purred and stared at Wesley with lazy half-lidded eyes before returning to rest its’ head on the man’s thigh.

 

It was a few seconds more before Erik brought his free hand up to his lips to take the smoke away to speak properly. ‘I’m surprised you stayed this long, to be honest.’

 

He shrugged and finally settled outside on the fire escape, not halfway between, as if stuck in a place called limbo. ‘Places to go, things to do, sights to see – all that shit.’

 

Erik hummed as he tapped the cigarette on the ash tray before bringing it back to his lips for another lungful of smoke. ‘Have you dealt with whatever you need to do here, then?’

 

Wesley looked through the window where his eyes immediately landed on the crumpled lease left on the kitchen counter with the key. He’d packed everything that belonged to him away in his bag and he only took a few of Charles’ things with him, the leather jacket being one of them, along with the black notebook, the anti-anxiety pills (not that he was going to use them) and a photograph of Charles, Raven and Erik together.

 

‘You can tell Raven she can take whatever she wants,’ he said as he closed the window into the apartment before one of the cats could slip inside. It yowled at him in irritation before hurrying back towards Erik for comfort. ‘It’ll have more sentimental value for her than it would for me, anyway.’

 

‘As for me?’ He asked, his lips quirked in a quiet tease.

 

‘You’ve got the spare key; help yourself.’ He began his way down the stairs, determined not to turn back, not to look over his shoulders, and to ignore all the regrets he was sure he’d end up carrying with him with each and every step he was going to take further and further away from San Francisco.

 

‘You don’t have to leave, if you want to stay,’ Erik’s voice floated down to his ears and he paused on the second flight of steps. His grip on the metal railing tightened and he fought the urge to look up to where Erik was.

 

‘I don’t.’

 

‘In that case, feel free.’

 

Wesley felt the corners of his lips turn downwards as he thought about what he was going to do once he left. Go back to his apartment in Chicago? Sit around until he could think of something else to do, until something else comes along? Go to that bloody mansion all the way in New York? What?

 

_That mansion doesn’t belong to me, anyway. It should be Raven’s._

 

He had left a note with her name on it on the desk of Charles’ bedroom. It contained the details of the Will, and a number to call Harold Smith despite that he found the man unbearable to deal with. If she’d agreed to it, then everything will be transferred to her, leaving him with just the trinkets he’s carrying in his bag as a reminder of his time in San Francisco and nothing else.

 

But for some reason, he found himself hesitating to take the last few flights of stairs away.

 

From above him, he could hear Erik take another deep breath of smoke and exhale languidly. He could hear the purr of the cats and a muffled echo of a TV playing in the background. Somewhere down the streets, cars were passing along, and people were walking past with thoughts focused on their own lives and nothing more. He could see the neon lights of the twenty-four hour store right across the road and a closed sign from a bakery next to it.

 

He slowly sank to the last step and pondered on what he had to go back to in Chicago. An apartment, surely, but what about after that? He had no job, no friends (Barry sure as hell doesn’t count) no _life_. There was nothing waiting for him in Chicago, not even a damn cat.

 

The Fraternity is gone, and Sloan is dead, so that’s mission over. He finished off what Cross had set off to do, and while Wesley felt _proud; accomplished_ , he also felt directionless now that it’s over.

 

_What now?_

 

From beside him, a cat meowed and he turned to see a dark brown tabby cat stare up at him with wide eyes, dilated pupils and yellow irises. He raised an eyebrow at it and wondered if it knew that he wasn’t Charles, that he was an imposter who wore the same face.

 

He shook his head.

 

 _Enough’s enough. Enough’s_ enough _._

_I’m not staying. I can’t stay; this isn’t my life. I don’t_ belong _here. I’m not Charles._

 

With that thought, he quickly stood, ignored the startled hiss coming from the cat and hurried the last few steps away. When he reached the ladder leading into the alleyway, he found it was stuck fast.

 

‘Damn piece of shit,’ he muttered to himself as he gave it a hard kick, but it refused to budge more than just an inch downwards. Wesley stared over the rails – it was just a short one and a half storey drop; nothing major, and if he landed on the rubbish dump, then that’ll cushion his fall just enough.

 

_I can make it._

But then he found himself stopping just short of tossing his bag over. He cursed at himself mentally and verbally as he kicked at the ladder one more time before he settled at the steps once again to brood.

 

_What do I want? What do I want?_

_I want control._

_No, I_ have _control; what else do I want?_

_Fuck, I’m behaving like a child. This is pathetic; I’m pathetic. As usual._

_Fuck’s sake…_

_What do I want?_

_I want to_ stay _. There, I said it._

 

With a heaving sigh, he picked up his bag and trudged his way back up the steps to his apartment. As he opened the window, the cats dashed in, but he really couldn’t give a shit about it at that moment. Instead, he tossed the bag to land on the couch and narrowed his eyes at Erik, as if it was _his fault_ that he was staying behind at this student hostel with a crazy person for a neighbor. As it were, the fault was only half his.

 

‘You’ll be staying, then?’ He asked with a teasing smirk on his face.

 

Wesley felt his nose twitch as he glared at the man. ‘Just one more day.’

 

Erik shrugged. ‘Not much of a difference.’

 

‘Then maybe I should just leave now and never come back. You’ll never have to see me again.’ _Is that what you want? Is that what you’re trying to get me to do? Just_ say it!

 

‘I’m not under the illusion that I’ll ever see you again, if you leave,’ he said as he took a long drag of his cigarette and sighed, ‘but I’ve a feeling I won’t stop hoping.’

 

He snorted as he turned away, leaned on the wall behind him and stared at the faded bricks that made up the building right next to theirs. ‘Hoping to see Charles, I suppose,’ he couldn’t help but say bitterly.

 

‘Yes and no.’

 

He scoffed as he stared at the other, not impressed. ‘Not a very clear answer, is it?’

 

Erik smirked as he dug his cigarette deep into the ash tray and left it there, long done with it, then he nodded his head towards his apartment. ‘Would you like to come in?’

 

‘I don’t like chess.’

 

‘I didn’t think you did. It was admirable that you even tried, though.’

 

 _You were testing me, you bastard._ But he let it go. ‘Got anymore of that German beer?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Then, in we go,’ he said as he followed behind Erik and immediately went straight for the fridge.

 

\--

 

This isn’t a fresh start, far from it. A fresh start would imply having his slate wiped completely clean – no past records to scrounge up, no skeletons in his closet. But no, this is not a fresh start, not for Wesley. Because not only are his records so horrendously boring (nobody’s caught onto the fact that it was him – unassuming man who worked an honest (?) 9 to 5 job as an accounts’ manager – that blew up a textile factory with over a hundred dead men and with three times that amount of rats inside it) that it’s not even worth the effort of erasing, but he’s got so many skeletons buried so deep in that closet that he doesn’t even think this lifetime would be long enough to clean it out completely. No, a fresh start was out of the question.

 

But San Francisco seemed doable.

 

‘Deep thoughts?’ Erik asked with a smirk on his face, like it was something to chuckle about. Maybe it was.

 

Wesley hummed as he shifted on the couch, took comfort in the fact that he was armed, but felt less so because it was digging into his spine and was doing an especially good job of trying to merge with his skin. Win some, lose some.

 

He took a deep gulp of his beer, his fourth of the night, and he was already scarlet in the face, with his heart beating in his chest wildly in an effort to process the alcohol he’s consumed. Or maybe it’s erratic because Erik is staring at him and Wesley can’t stop thinking about what happened not three nights ago, or more specifically, what _didn’t_ happen three nights ago.

 

‘Where were you planning on going?’ Erik asked as he settled more comfortably on his side of the couch and gazed at the amber liquid in his glass.

 

‘Chicago,’ and he had absolutely no idea what prompted him to answer so honestly. It can’t be the beer; he’s not that naïve to blame it on that. Or maybe he is.

 

He finished off the last of his drink and decided another one was in order, especially if they were going to play twenty-questions, and especially if he was going to stay. Wesley settled for the UK brand of beer when he realized that there’s no more of the German.

 

‘Do you have family there?’

 

‘No,’ _my family is dead_ , ‘no family.’ He popped the cap open and wish he could savor the alcohol but… _God, I wish this was stronger._

 

He leaned on the kitchen counter, on the side of his hip, his back to Erik, his eyes focused on the cat lying on top of the fridge purring in contentment from its warmth. He cleared his throat as he looked over his shoulder, question poised on his lips, but Erik was walking towards him, empty glass in hand. When their arms brushed, his question died on his lips and he had to snap his mouth shut to stop looking even more like an incompetent idiot.

 

_Get a grip, Wesley. This isn’t fucking high school._

 

Erik pretended not to notice as he opened the freezer and took out the ice box, left it on the side and unscrewed the nearly-finished bottle of scotch.

 

‘Do you mind if I have some of that?’ He was in desperate need for something stronger; to lose his sense of self and to just lose himself in the kind of haze that one can only get from being drunk and completely smashed.

 

‘Not at all,’ he poured a generous portion of the old scotch into his glass, ‘ice or no ice?’

 

‘Whatever you’re having,’ he said as he put the beer on the counter beside him.

 

Erik nodded and added one cube then handed it to the other.

 

He took a sip, then made a face; he wasn’t used to it, simply because it was an expensive indulgence and the little amount of money he had he’d spent on his prescription pills to keep his sanity in check. Wesley wondered how much money he could’ve saved if he’d found out sooner that what he was experiencing (the palpitations, the sudden heat and the clarity of vision) wasn’t some kind of anxiety attack but merely his untrained abilities.

 

‘Do you mind if I finish that off?’

 

Wesley shrugged as he handed his unfinished drink over and savored the burn sliding down his throat. His belly had been fluttering before, but now it was positively buzzing with nerves. Two more sips were enough to spread the warmth from his face down to his neck and beneath his shirt and jacket. Without thinking, he took it off, tossed it onto the couch (he missed) and had to readjust himself so that his gun didn’t slip out from behind him. Habit had made him carry it, and now it was habit that was making him suffer the pain of having it jabbed between his spine and the kitchen counter, but it was his control and he wasn’t too keen on relinquishing it.

 

‘Wesley,’

 

‘What,’ he turned and lost his grip on reality.

 

Erik kissed him, full on the lips, wild and unchecked. Wesley pushed back, ignored the crunch of glass and ice beneath his shoes as he narrowed his eyes at him. ‘What happened to being broken?’ He sneered as he tightened his grip on the man’s turtle neck, daring him to take it back, walk away and expose his back to him once more so he could _shoot_ him for stringing him along.

 

‘I can live with it,’ he said as he tried for another kiss. Wesley turned away but Erik didn’t care, he attacked his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, whatever he could get.

 

‘I’m not Charles; get it through that thick head of yours.’ He huffed breathlessly and wished his voice didn’t shake and stutter as he tried to be as unyielding as possible – he was failing drastically. Then he remembered he had always been something of a pushover.

 

‘I never implied that you were.’

 

He scoffed, found it hard to believe. ‘You sure about that?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Good,’ _good enough for me,_ ‘because I won’t pretend to be somebody I’m not just to make you happy.’

 

Erik laughed bitterly before he stole another kiss, another rough bite along the jaw, enough to bruise but not quite. ‘I’ve long given up on happiness.’

 

Wesley couldn’t help but admit the same thing as they both grappled for the upper hand and tumbled away from the kitchen, crashed into the back of the couch, fought along the walls of the apartment, while he occasionally winced at the sharp dig in his back at every collision, before stumbling into the bedroom and onto the bed.

 

Maybe this wasn’t a fresh start, but it was as close to one as he’s ever going to get, so he grabbed it with both hands and held on tight like his new life depended on it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, no, I don’t write…I CAN’T WRITE those kinds of scenes. The best thing you’ll get from me is a VAGUE sense of…-ahem-


	8. Chapter 8

When he finally mustered enough energy to open his eyes, all he saw was a cat’s ass in his face and he thought: _fuck, I forgot to close the window again._ But when he shifted and shoved the cat off his bed, which yowled and hissed at him, he realized that the thing that was settled on his back was most definitely not a gun and he thought: _son of a bitch, I did_ not _just sleep with Charles’ next-door neighbor._

 

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he had.

 

His head was on top of Erik’s bicep, which didn’t work very well as a pillow. Either he was so fucked out of his mind last night that he couldn’t care less that he wasn’t even sleeping on a pillow, or he didn’t care enough to move. It was probably a mixture of the two.

 

There was a leg tucked between his, and the blanket was tangled all around them. On his stomach, straying dangerously too far down was Erik’s hand, flat and possessive under his navel.

 

A lot of the previous night went straight over his head, but his body felt satisfied in such a way and hadn’t felt for so long that he didn’t even have the heart to complain about it. He could recall a lot of detail (the rustle of sheets on his back, the sweat he swept up in his hands, the sounds that echoed around the bedroom), and even if he couldn’t, the soreness between his legs and the bruises he felt on his neck, hips and back was proof enough of their wild adventures in bed. There was a lingering ache on his wrists, and he remembered the way Erik held onto them, like he was his lifeline and he couldn’t let go, lest he drown.

 

He moved his head slowly (he wasn’t drunk, far from it) and looked over his shoulder; Erik was awake and staring at him with a mixture of wonder and contentment in his pale eyes. Wesley froze and hoped to God, if there was one, that Erik wasn’t looking at Charles but at _him_ , instead.

 

Erik smiled as his hand travelled flat above his stomach, across his chest and settled on the curves of his collarbone. If the man wanted to, he could suffocate him and he wouldn’t have cared. But Erik wouldn’t do that. And he didn’t know why he felt certain of that thought.

 

‘Wesley,’

 

He let go a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding and felt his heart jump start in his chest again.

 

‘Have a good sleep?’

 

Wesley shifted, until he was facing Erik and they were eye to eye. He could see a few bruises on the man’s neck, souvenirs of last night’s kisses, and he could see a couple small-sized marks on his bicep’s, possibly from when he’d held on too tight. If his eyes lingered lower, then he might just be able to make out the faint discoloration on the man’s hips and thighs as well. Not that it could’ve been helped; they had been wildly violent. And it felt so good.

 

‘Better than I expected,’ and it surprised him that he wasn’t even lying in the least. It had been far from peaceful, but it was free from the nightmares that have been constantly dogging his every step for years and years – result of his insecurities, guilt and absolute hate for the world.

 

‘Good,’ he said as he sat up, exposed his back and all the scratches upon it and stepped out of bed, ‘make yourself at home. I have to get ready for work.’

 

‘You work?’ He was completely taken aback; he hadn’t known Erik even had a job. The man came over to his apartment so often, though at irregular times, that he had all but assumed the man was unemployed. Apparently, he was very wrong.

 

A fresh set of clothing was retrieved from the dresser and Erik smirked as he looked at Wesley from over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on the dark mark left below his ear upon his jaw. ‘Yes, we can’t all spend our days lounging around the apartment ignoring cats.’

 

‘Ah, fuck, speaking of the cats…’ they were probably tearing up at the couch fabrics now. He sat up and tried to rub the kink away from his neck, possibly from sleeping on an arm rather than a fluffy pillow. He mentally shrugged it off – he’s slept on worse.

 

‘Do you want to go out for dinner later?’

 

Wesley raised an eyebrow. ‘A bit backwards, aren’t we?’

 

‘Yes, well, we hardly met in an orthodox fashion, did we?’

 

He shrugged as he swung his feet over the edge and began looking around for his clothes. He found his t-shirt by his feet but his trousers were tossed all the way to the opposite corner of the room. He stood, stretched and sighed at the satisfying pop and crack of his back. ‘Sure, dinner sounds good.’

 

Erik nodded as he left Wesley to pick apart his bedroom in search of his clothes while he took over the bathroom. By the time the shower head came on, Wesley was only half-dressed and still in search for his shoes, cursing as he did so. He found one hiding under the bed next to his gun, though he had no clue how it managed to slide all the way down there. The other one was still missing and it wasn’t until he was on his way out of the room, hobbling because of the uneven height, that he noticed it lying on top of the desk. How _that_ one got up there, he didn’t even want to know. He didn’t recall kicking them off that hard.

 

Just as he was about to leave through the window, Erik came out of the shower, hair slick and clean-shaven. He was wearing white, crisp business shirt still unbuttoned and grey trousers, though the tie was still missing.

 

‘Where do you work?’ He asked out of curiosity more than the need to know as he sat on the ledge and watched as Erik worked on the buttons of his cuffs.

 

He smiled a shark-like grin; far too much teeth. It disturbed Wesley how much he liked it.

 

‘I have some pressing business with a bank director today.’

 

Whatever it was, it was probably too complicated for Wesley to fully understand anyway, so he left it at that and agreed to meet with him for dinner later.

 

\--

 

The weather was surprisingly good – cloudy with an occasional ray of sunlight – and all the cats were out on the fire escape sunbathing and sleeping. They hadn’t even cared when Wesley shut the window on them, just continued to lie there and purr to themselves. He wondered if cats could get sun-burnt.

 

He hoped they did.

 

‘Are you free tomorrow?’

 

‘Why? If this has something to do with shopping, then no, I’m not free.’

 

Raven rolled her eyes and punched him playfully on the shoulder, but her expression remained somber as she went through her bag to retrieve a small envelope – an invitation of sorts. She handed it to him.

 

He ignored the way her hands seemed to be shaking as he took it, but he didn’t open it just yet as he went to his bedroom (Charles’ – mustn’t forget) and rummaged around the desk until he found what he was looking for, buried under his still-packed duffle bag.

 

She raised an eyebrow at him, but a smile was playing on her lips as she took the letter from him. ‘And what’s this for?’ She asked as she began to carefully tear at the paper.

 

‘Open it and you’ll see,’ he said as he slipped a finger under the flap of the envelope and slit it open. It was an invitation, he was right, but it was to a funeral.

 

Charles’, more specifically.

 

‘What?’ They both said at the same time and stared at each other with wide blue eyes. He reckoned she might’ve laughed and said _jinx_ if she didn’t look as though she was on the verge of tears, again.

 

_Ah, fuck, why do I always make her cry?_

 

Maybe because he was an insensitive fucker who didn’t know how to ease people in to sad situations – he might as well be a bull in a china shop, not that this particular metaphor held any truth to it anymore, as he’d found out on TV the other day.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized when tears began to ruin her carefully applied make-up.

 

She shook her head, as though she couldn’t comprehend what she was reading. ‘Why does this feel like a goodbye?’

 

‘It—’ he stopped. It _was_ supposed to be a goodbye; planned it to be, but he found himself reconsidering. He hadn’t thought how his departure might affect her as well, but he had a feeling that it might just break her into pieces again, and he didn’t want to be the one to do that. Raven didn’t deserve that. ‘It’s not – you know I’m not very good with words,’ he tried to excuse himself and wished he had the foresight to at least take out the letter that he had addressed to her before he gave her the damn thing.

 

_Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!_

 

She was shaking from head to toe, and he could see the corner of a small piece of paper he had left to her peeking out from in front of the Will. Maybe he could…

 

‘Have you read the letter, yet?’

 

‘No,’ she was just about to when he yanked it from her fingers. She opened her mouth to protest when he shook his head.

 

‘You don’t want to read it. Don’t torture yourself with the little things,’ he said as he went over to the sink, pulled out his lighter and let it burn.

 

‘So it _was_ supposed to be a goodbye.’

 

He looked at her from where he stood and saw the tension she held in her shoulders, the defiance in her fingers and the rage in her eyes. She was still crying, but he preferred this anger over her grief. It was better, easier to deal with.

 

‘Yes,’ he wouldn’t lie to her; couldn’t, if he were to be honest about it. ‘But I’ve decided to stay.’

 

‘Good,’ she sniffed and used the sleeve of her light sweater to dab at her face, ‘because if you left, I _will_ hunt you down and kick your ass all the way to New Zealand.’

 

Wesley laughed as he looked back into the sink and watched the last embers fade into black. ‘I’m sure you will.’ He turned the taps on and listened as the last hiss washed down the drain. 

 

‘So, about this Will,’

 

‘It’s all yours,’ he said as he walked back towards her, to the couch, and noticed that she looks relatively normal now, not a streak of make-up out of place, as if she hadn’t just been crying a few seconds ago. She’s a strong woman; Charles would be proud to know, or perhaps, he already does.

 

‘We should split it,’ she suggested, ignoring what he said previously. ‘You can have the house, but the pool is mine.’ Wesley snorted. ‘We should go there someday, maybe next week – I’ll show you around. We should get Erik to come along, too.’

 

He was surprised by how quick she could speak, as if she didn’t even require air. ‘Well, you better tell him by today so he can ask for leave.’

 

Raven raised her eyebrows at him, but carefully evaded eye-contact as she turned her attention back to the Will in front of her. ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to clear up his schedule for us.’

 

Wesley wondered at the sudden shift in mood, but chose not to ponder over it as she began to chat excitedly about what they could split between the two of them. Raven decided that the vintage cars can be divided between him and Erik, since she didn’t appreciate cars as much as boys did.

 

‘In that case, I get first dibs.’ He had no doubt that there would be an impressive collection in the garage, and he had a feeling that whatever thoughts he had in his mind would pale to the reality of seeing it firsthand. The trip to New York would take hours, and the drive from station to mansion would probably take a couple more, but it would be worth it. Raven said so.

 

‘If I get the pool, then I also get the pool house.’

 

‘What the fuck, what’s left for me, then? A stuffy, old mansion that’s probably on the verge of falling apart?’

 

She snorted. ‘Don’t be silly – there’s also the wine cellar and armory, not that I know what you can do with an armory but I’m sure you can figure something out.’

 

_Armory, hm? Sounds interesting._

 

‘Fine, Erik can have the wine cellar, but the armory’s mine.’

 

‘I’ve been there once or twice before, Charles showed me. There’re cannons and old rifles and all sorts of random shit in there. I hope you don’t have hay-fever.’

 

He grinned as they shook on it. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’

 

At that, they laughed until tears gathered at the corners of their eyes.

 

It was weird; this apartment was starting to feel like home, and being around Erik and Raven was starting to give him a sense of belonging, and peace. The urge to run was still there, but the need to stay was bigger.

 

_Sorry, Charles, but I’m taking over._

 


	9. Chapter 9

The only funeral he’s ever been to was his mother’s. It had been small with only a handful of guests, and the weather had been dull and drab, but not raining. As Wesley turned his eyes to the dark skies, he couldn’t help but think: _stupid San Francisco weather._ The colors of the day matched the mood and it felt like they were drowning, _still_ drowning, and Charles had the lifeline with him: _ironic…_

 

They were all wearing black, as per the custom, but he had a feeling Charles would’ve preferred something brighter, would’ve preferred if someone wore blue, to match his eyes, or brown cardigans, to playfully tease him, or tweed suits complete with elbow patches, just for a good laugh.

 

Wesley fought back a sigh as he walked up to Raven where she stood on the first aisle of seats. The grass was wet beneath their feet, but at least it hasn’t gotten to the point of becoming muddy yet. Something to be grateful about, he supposed.

 

‘I was under the impression that funerals usually happen within the first week of death.’ It’s been over two now.

 

She nodded as she continued to wring her fingers around a wrinkled handkerchief. ‘Yeah, we had a closed-casket funeral, because Charles wasn’t there.’

 

‘So, what’s this, then?’ He asked as he gestured in front of them.

 

Raven sniffed. ‘An informal procedure; they gave him back to us, so…’

 

‘Right…’

 

‘It’s going to be just us,’ she said as she took hold of his hand and held on tight, her head on his shoulder and eyes shiny with unshed tears.

 

The only people in attendance were him, Raven and Erik, as well as the funeral director who preferred to be known as the Undertaker and presumably the same priest they had used the first time they did this. The old man smiled at them sympathetically as he went to where Charles lay and began his quiet prayers. From beside him, Erik took his place, smelling like smoke.

 

Wesley breathed it in.

 

‘It’s still closed-casket, by the way,’ he said and tried to push the images of his dead brother from behind his eyes. It was difficult. He didn’t want to imagine what Charles looked like now; he didn’t want to imagine anything worse.

 

‘Yeah, but at least this time, it’s not empty.’

 

No, but Charles, for all intents and purposes, was.

 

\--

 

He was tempted to open the casket, to peek inside, because he was still very much a child and a tiny part of him hoped that Charles would surprise him by coming back to life. Of course, that was a stupid thought.

 

 _I hate funerals_. Never mind that he’s only been to two, this one included.

 

Wesley let out a quiet sigh as he placed a hand over the white coffin and brushed his fingers over the carvings laid out on the edges. It was disturbingly beautiful, and wretchedly picturesque. The only colors that weren’t black and white that he could see were the wreath of flowers left on top of the casket, bright and full of life. Raven had chosen sunflowers, because they were Charles’ favorite flowers and because they hadn’t been able to do it the first time – they weren’t proper flowers to be had at a funeral. She almost made them wear one on their suit as a corsage, which would’ve been funnily ridiculous, never mind that corsages are meant to be worn only on celebrations, but Erik managed to get her to forget about even trying.

 

He was grateful for that.

 

Another sigh left his lips as he closed his eyes and imagined what it would’ve been like to hold a real conversation with Charles. How would they start? What would they have to talk about? Family? Friends? Lovers?

 

_Sorry about Erik, by the way._

 

He wasn’t sure what their relationship was, but if he could guess, it was more than just simple friendship. Maybe it was more, or maybe it wasn’t and he was just over-thinking it. Erik made it clear that he and Charles never did anything, and he also made it clear (without saying a damn word) that he regretted it.

 

_You’ve missed your chance. Hope you don’t mind if I take advantage of that._

 

There was nobody else near the coffin with him; the ceremony was over. The priest had return to perform his services back in his church, Raven was dealing with the final tasks that needed to be taken care of with the Undertaker in the office, and Erik was somewhere, probably smoking a pack and uncaring that his lungs were on the verge of turning charcoal black, what with the way he was going through them like a woman would with a box of chocolates. He was alone with Charles – time for a brotherly talk.

 

‘You knew, didn’t you?’ He began as he touched a petal and thought about the black notebook he found in the toilet tank and the black leather jacket he pulled out from the back of the closet. ‘Did you ever try to find me?’ He plucked the petal from the flower head and twisted it between his fingers, until it rolled and bruised and wrinkled to pieces. Wesley let it drop to the ground.

 

‘Why didn’t you try and find me?’ He asked as confusion and frustration colored his words and his features. ‘You had more of an idea than I ever did but you never—’ he paused and tried to figure out why he was so suddenly angry at Charles. Maybe the stresses of the past couple of weeks were finally catching up to him, ready to be unleashed in this final confrontation. It would probably be his only chance until the time came to bury Charles six feet under where he’d be busy spending the rest of his afterlife pushing up daisies.

 

Wesley shook his head – maybe being left alone in this environment was making his head go all funny. Maybe he was finally losing his mind. Maybe he should go find Raven or Erik before he really lost it.

 

He ran.

 

\--

 

Raven wasn’t crying, but it was a near thing as they watched the casket being lowered into the ground. Erik stood a small distance away, under the shade of the tree, but came forward when Raven beckoned towards him for comfort. Wesley felt oddly out of place, but at the same time, he wouldn’t want the funeral any other way. He didn’t think he could cope with more strangers in his life, looking at him like he was a ghost, asking him questions and poking and prodding him like they couldn’t believe it.

 

_I’m not Charles Xavier, I’m Wesley Gibson._

 

He continued to stand on his own even after the soil had been piled on top of the coffin then patted down, and long after Erik and Raven decided to go get something to eat.

 

‘Come with us,’ Raven had asked when she tried to pull him along.

 

He shook his head, his eyes still trained on the headstone of Charles’ grave. ‘I think I’ll stay a little longer.’ _I’m not done with him, yet._

 

She paused, then nodded, figuring this to be something he wanted to do, and wanted to do alone. ‘We’ll see you back at the apartment?’ She asked worriedly, as though still slightly afraid that if she let go, he’ll disappear just like Charles did.

 

‘Yeah, save me some food,’ he said in reassurance and shoved her along to where Erik was waiting for them, cigarette hanging from his lips with smoke curling into the air and fading with the wind.

 

Fifteen minutes found him still standing there, a blank expression on his face. He didn’t know what to say. What was a person supposed to say to a dead twin brother they’ve never met before? He exhaled through his nose and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

 

‘Good to see that I was wrong.’

 

He jumped, almost went for the gun behind his back until he realized that he hadn’t taken it with him, had left it hiding under his bed back in the apartment. But he’s still got the knife, tucked securely in the holster of his boot. ‘What’re you doing here?’ He asked once he’s realized that he’s in good company.

 

‘Paying my respects. I’m sorry that you’ve accumulated yet another loss.’

 

Wesley huffed as he turned back to the freshly-turned soil and placed a hand on the headstone. ‘Seems to be a recurring theme in my life.’ At least Charles was given a proper burial, as well as his mother. He was sorry he couldn’t do the same for Cross, and especially for Fox.

 

Pekwarsky sighed as he patted him on the shoulder in condolence and comfort. They stood side by side in silence until the old man cleared his throat and lowered his voice for Wesley’s ears only.

 

‘Were you aware?’

 

‘Aware of what?’ He wondered out loud, his voice lowered to match the pitch Pekwarsky had set for them.

 

‘Ah, you haven’t realized, then.’

 

‘Realized _what_?’ He snapped. He wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. ‘If you’ve got something to say, then _say it_.’

 

Pekwarsky narrowed his eyes at him, as thought judging whether or not Wesley was of enough sound mind to hear his news, or maybe it was because he didn’t like his tone, either way.

 

‘Your brother did not commit suicide; he was murdered.’

 

His heart raced in his chest as he absorbed the new information in his head. His doubts now confirmed, no more second-guessing. This is it.

 

‘Tell me more.’

 

\--

 

The motel room was far from swanky, but it provided enough of the basic necessities to get by comfortably. It had a single bed, a bathroom and a small table with two rickety chairs set side by side. There was a small TV with crooked antennas, one longer than the other, nailed down to a cabinet facing the bed and there was a radio just beside it, with wires that had been chewed through possibly by rats.

 

Wesley felt very much at home with the whole setup. Funny that.

 

‘OK, tell me what you know,’ he said as he settled on the chair and watched as Pekwarsky began setting about the room for some tea. As soon as he got the boiler on, he pulled out a small bag he had shoved beneath the bed and placed it on the table between them.

 

‘This is what I have,’ he began as he unzipped the bag and pulled out one folder after another and set them down in front of Wesley, ‘what I managed to retrieve concerning your brother’s death.’

 

‘Bullet to the head; tell me something new,’ he said as he flipped open one folder and was shown pictures of Charles, the same ones he’d received from Harold concerning the results of the autopsy.

 

‘The Fraternity, or what’s left of it after your thorough run-through of it.’

 

Wesley paused on the picture containing an unmarked bullet and felt his heart lurch in his chest at the revelation. ‘How many?’ _Why wasn’t this in the autopsy report? It should’ve been included._

 

‘Three; the last of Sloan’s men.’

 

He frowned as he looked up at Pekwarsky. ‘I suppose Sloan didn’t send them to off me because he wanted to do it personally?’

 

The man gave a slow nod and watched as Wesley flew through the pictures at a rapid pace, never stopping for more than two seconds before moving on. ‘You’ve guessed right. You dealt him a hard blow and he wanted to make certain you met your fate.’ He ignored Wesley’s scoff. ‘He didn’t plan to fail, but he planned for contingencies anyway.’

 

He pursed his lips as he settled back on the photo with the bullet casing. ‘Too bad they got the wrong guy.’ _Who made this? Can I trace it back to the owner? To my brother’s killer?_

 

‘It’s a pity that you had to find out this way.’

 

A curt laugh escaped his lips as his gaze flitted to the side and landed on a picture of Charles. ‘Yeah, well, life’s fucked up that way.’

 

Pekwarsky’s lips curled in distaste, possibly as his crude use of language. ‘What do you intend to do now?’

 

‘I’m going back to the apartment first, then Chicago,’ he said as he packed up the folders to take with him. He needed to go back and regroup, do some research and ready himself for another brawl.

 

_Sorry, Raven, but I’m doing this for you as much as it is for me._

 

‘They’re not in Chicago; they’re here, in San Francisco.’

 

_Shit._

 

Wesley froze, felt a cold dread settle over his shoulders and press down heavily. He suddenly couldn’t breathe. _Do they know?_

 

There was a sound of metal clunking on wood and he looked up to see the old man place a gun down on the table, observing him with keen eyes. ‘I came with the intention to kill them myself, to repay a debt, but now that I’ve confirmed that it’s not you but your brother, I believe it’s no longer my place to avenge the dead.’

 

He took the gun, weighed it in his hands and familiarized himself with the feel of it. ‘Do they know?’ He asked in a fit of uncertainty. Because if they did…then Raven and Erik…

 

‘Know that you’re alive?’ He scoffed and waved his hand away. ‘Certainly not, especially when it took me until today to realize that the person I’m seeing is the real Wesley Gibson and not a ghost.’

 

He let out a breath of relief. _This is good. This is good; they won’t see me coming, then._

 

‘Good,’ once he checked the safety, he tucked the gun behind him and picked up the folders. ‘Check out of this room; we’re going to my place.’ The man didn’t say another word as he zipped his bag and proceeded out the door. Wesley gave the room a cursory glance before he closed the door behind him.

 

The water had just come to a boil.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be another 2 chapters with a short epilogue for the third update, then we can wrap it all up! Thanks to all those who have read this and have stayed with me since the beginning and I hope the last scenes won't disappoint any of you.
> 
> Also, if anybody is interested I also have a Tumblr account. There's not a whole lot in there, but there are the occasional story upload you won't find here on AO3. Mostly it's just silly stuffs from a silly person influenced by another silly person. HAH!!
> 
> LINK - http://straggling-wanderer.tumblr.com/


	10. Chapter 10

Truth be told, Wesley had never thought that he would one day pick up a gun again for anything more than just simple self-defense: _can’t say I don’t miss it, though._ He also never thought that he’d have to avenge another member of his family against the Fraternity as well: _it’s like Fate is just screwing me over._

 

It had been almost dark by the time they reached his apartment, Pekwarsky in tow. Wesley was glad that the next apartment over was still dark and empty. It meant that he didn’t have to come up with excuses when he leaves and possibly not come back.

 

‘I don’t think your father would be happy to see you take up the mantle as an assassin again.’

 

‘Yeah, well,’ he checked to make sure the magazine was full before he shoved it back into his gun and cocked it, ‘I think he’ll agree with me that a little rebellion would be good for character building.’

 

Pekwarsky harrumphed as he watched Wesley put the safety of his gun on and tucked it behind him in between his jacket and his belt – he’s long changed out of his borrowed suit. ‘I’ve known your father for years, and that would be exactly what he’d say.’ He sounded both put-upon and fond at the memory of Cross.

 

Wesley almost laughed but settled for a smirk instead. ‘Good to know where I stand, then.’

 

The old man shook his head, as if dealing with a wayward child and wasn’t sure whether to humor or scold him. He did neither.

 

‘You shouldn’t go alone.’

 

‘What? Are you shitting me? I took down the whole Fraternity on my own – I think I can handle three guys.’ Granted, he took them out with the help of about a few hundred rats and with the support from Fox, but it’s not like anybody cares about the little details. ‘That aside, you’re sure about their location?’

 

‘Corner of George and Farmers’ street, yes, fourth floor. Would you like a map?’ He asked sardonically.

 

‘Don’t get pissy with me,’ he said without bite as he checked his knife and gave the room another quick look around to see if he’s missed anything. He couldn’t afford to leave anything important behind, in case he wasn’t come back, in case he _couldn’t_ come back. ‘Well, that’s that, then.’

 

The front door opened, followed by the sound of something being left behind in the kitchen.

 

‘Wesley?’

 

_Shit._

 

He cringed and almost wished Erik had warned him before he decided to come in. Of all the times for the man to heed his words about using the spare key, it just had to be this one crucial moment – worst timing, ever. He was thankful that Raven wasn’t with him, or it could make things twice as hard, probably even impossible.

 

He pursed his lips at the thought of leaving Raven behind with a different kind of grief to recover from.

 

Erik stopped at the door leading into the bedroom, gave the old man a quick once-over, then stared at him for three seconds before his eyes landed on the photographs he had left on the table. Wesley shifted so that most of the things he had stupidly left out were hidden behind him, but he doubted it would’ve helped by very much.

 

‘Why the hell do you have photos of Charles?’ He asked, his tone and expression a mixture of horror and rage. His suit was still immaculate but he was quickly heading down the path to coming undone. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’

 

‘Do I _look_ like I’m laughing?’ Wesley retorted as his stance took on a defensive turn and kept his glare solely focused on the man standing in the door of his bedroom in front of him.

 

‘What’s going on?’

 

He cursed mentally and verbally as he tore his gaze away from Erik who looked like he didn’t know whether to be angry or worried about Wesley. He ran his fingers through his hair as he cursed again and wished he didn’t have to do this, not here, not now, not ever. ‘I really don’t think you wanna know.’

 

Erik disagreed. ‘Oh, I really do think I want to know.’

 

‘God,’ as if there was such a thing, ‘where do I even start?’

 

Pekwarsky cleared his throat. ‘I see you have company,’ he cut in once it was acknowledged that Erik wasn’t going to go anywhere anytime soon. He nodded his head in greeting, but didn’t stay for much longer. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck, Wesley.’

 

‘Yeah, thanks…’ he muttered weakly as the old man sidestepped past Erik, who had given him a wide berth, and left through the open doors without a backward glance. Then it was just them.

 

Erik’s eyes occasionally strayed to the photos strewn on the desk behind him, next to the papers and documents that Pekwarsky had wrangled together. He wanted to clear them away, stop the despair from appearing in Erik’s eyes, but Wesley didn’t want to turn his back on him. He didn’t know if it was because he didn’t trust Erik, or because he was too paranoid at this point to allow himself to expose his back. It was probably both.

 

‘Well?’

 

‘Well, _what_?’ He snapped without meaning to.

 

This was getting too complicated. He was supposed to leave, finish off the last of the Fraternity, come back only if he was able to, that’s it; he hadn’t wanted anybody else to know what he was about to go do, especially Erik and Raven because, God help him, he started _caring_ about what they thought about him.

 

And it scared him.

 

Erik stepped forward, large and imposing. He pulled out his gun and aimed it at the man’s head.

 

‘Don’t,’ Wesley warned but felt his heart slow down a fraction as the man halted, who otherwise paid the gun no mind. He was aware the safety was still on, and he intended to keep it that way, but Erik didn’t know that. The weapon he held was more of a prop and a threat to action than anything else at this moment.

 

‘Tell me,’ he demanded, though it almost sounded like a beg.

 

His throat was working furiously, as though trying to find the right words to say and fight them off at the same time. His mind was whirling with the possible scenarios of how this could go – with Erik gone, out the front door never to return, or with the both of them grappling over the phone so that a call to the police wouldn’t be made, or with Erik dead, lying in a pool of his own blood because of an accidental misfire. Wesley checked the safety again.

 

‘Tell me!’

 

He wanted to lie. He wanted to lie and spare Erik that grief, and give the man anger instead, because anger is easier to plough through than grief. Grief smothers, and chokes and suffocates. Anger gives clarity and a forward drive. Anger is better than grief; that was what Wesley had always believed.

 

He drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out of his lips in a shudder.

 

‘I was supposed to die,’ he said quietly, as if it might soften the blow.

 

Confusion colored his features as he turned his head slightly to the side, as if to hear better. ‘What? Excuse me?’

 

A growl escaped him. ‘ _I_ was supposed to die; not Charles.’

 

Confusion made way for disbelief as he stared at Wesley like he had suddenly grown an extra head. ‘What?’

 

His heart was beating frantically in his chest as his hands shook. He wanted to take it back, but it was too late; might as well finish what he’s started. ‘I was their mark,’ he grabbed at one of the handouts behind him and held it in front of Erik to see, ‘I was supposed to be their target, but they shot the wrong guy.’ A curt, manic laugh escaped him as he thought about how he wouldn’t be where he is today if it hadn’t been for them making a stupid mistake like this. ‘They killed him, so now it’s payback time.’

 

Erik took the photo at a measured pace, careful and worried that the slightest movement might provoke Wesley into doing something he might regret. He wasn’t too far off.

 

‘That man told you?’ He asked as nodded his head to the side, to where Pekwarsky had previously stood.

 

‘Yeah, he told me everything.’ About how they had cornered Charles in his office after a staff party at the university, and about how they made it so it looked like a drunken suicide instead of a murder. The only thing left behind besides a dead man with a hole in his head was a gun that only held one set of fingerprints and one missing bullet.

 

The office couldn’t be use to process the evidence left behind. It was tainted, with far too many random hairs, fingerprints and foreign soils to make anything out of because of too many people coming and going, day in and day out.

 

The lady who found him in the morning had become catatonic and was still undergoing therapy. Not like he cared; he had his own grief to deal with.

 

‘And you actually believe him?’

 

Wesley scoffed and fought the urge to roll his eyes. ‘There aren’t many things these days that I can afford to question.’ Like bending bullets and wild car chases and insane train runs as well as an underground world of trained assassins. He couldn’t afford to be ignorant anymore.

 

‘You trust him?’

 

‘I do; he saved my life.’

 

He nodded curtly as he stared down at the picture in his hands and held it with a certain care that made Wesley’s skin crawl and be jealous of at the same time. ‘And you intend to kill them?’

 

‘Yes.’ There was something about their situation that bothered him, scratched his nerves like a terrible itch. Like why Erik seemed so calm despite having a gun pointed at him, and why he didn’t seem the least bit disturbed that they were talking about death and committing murder, not just one but _multiple_ murders.

 

Erik spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘Charles would probably say that killing will not bring you peace.’

 

‘This is not about peace; it’s about revenge. Charles deserves justice; he was never meant to be a part of this, let alone die for something that was never his fault.’

 

Erik’s eyes snapped up to meet his, determination and approval behind them. Wesley felt a shiver run up his spine at the look, and allowed his hands to lower back down to his sides. The man took that as an invitation to crowd his space as the photo slipped from his hands and floated down to the floor to lie beside their feet.

 

‘You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to hear those words,’ he breathed as he held on tight enough to bruise.

 

‘I take it you don’t mind that I’m about to commit multiple murders, then.’ He felt giddy and dizzy and breathless as the smell of Erik surrounded him. It was intoxicating.

 

‘For Charles, for Raven, for us? No. It’s what we deserve.’

 

‘Good.’

 

\--

 

The apartment was locked, the windows were closed and there was a note for Raven lying on top of the kitchen counter next to the wrinkled lease along with the key. It was dark and Wesley felt his heart lurch at the thought of leaving it all behind. Somehow, over the course of the past couple of weeks, the apartment had gone from being a single burden to be let go of, to something of a home.

 

If all went well in the next few hours, then maybe he can find his way back to it.

 

In the next apartment over, Erik was changing from his suit to something more casual while Wesley sat on the couch waiting with a spare gun in hand.

 

‘You don’t have to be a part of it,’ he said for the third time that evening.

 

‘I’m going with you.’ His tone brook no argument.

 

Wesley gave up, deciding that if he couldn’t get the man to change his mind after the third attempt, then there was no going back. He shrugged. ‘Fine, it’s your life.’

 

‘What do you intend to do?’ Erik asked as he pulled on his leather jacket and stepped out of his bedroom into the living room.

 

‘Me? I’m gonna pay them a visit.’ He couldn’t help the smirk on his face as he twirled the gun on his finger.

 

It felt exhilarating to know that he’s about to go off on a job, and his heart was happily drumming a rapid beat in his chest at the surge of adrenalin coursing through his body. No, not a job, but a personal mission, one he hasn’t started yet but felt determined to see to the very end.

 

‘By the way,’ he began as he offered the gun to Erik, handle first, ‘you know how guns work?’

 

The man seemed quietly confident as he took hold of the weapon (still warm from Wesley’s fingers) and held it in a tight grip. ‘Take the safety off, aim, shoot, kill.’

 

‘Good.’ One less thing to worry about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who's been with me since the beginning! We're almost coming to an end; not much further to go!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of warning: I'm not very good with scenes that involve fighting and any sort of violence...(unlike other people who make it seem so EFFORTLESS). It makes enough sense to me, though it doesn't LOOK nice, but I hope it's understandable enough for all of you. -fingers crossed-

The building on the corner of George and Farmers’ street looked like something out of a bad action movie: _cliché_. It was dark, run-down, on the verge of falling on its foundations and Wesley couldn’t help but think how typical it was of them to choose a setting like this: _they’re behaving more like two-bit criminals than trained assassins. Sloan would be heartbroken._

 

Then he felt anger course through his veins at the thought that three _two-bit_ assassins somehow managed to kill off his brother.

 

_I’m gonna kill them. I’m gonna fucking kill them._

 

His heart was pounding in his chest and loudly in his ears. His breathing was deafening in their quiet surroundings and he felt a hand, warm and slender, hold onto his arm.

 

‘Calm down,’ Erik whispered into his ear and tugged him away from the mouth of the alleyway further into the shadows, away from the building just across the street.

 

‘Would’ve been nice if I had saved some explosives,’ he muttered to himself as he kept his eyes glued on the building, on the rickety floorboards that barred entry into the office, on the cracked and broken windows and the chipped bricks. It would’ve been so easy.

 

Erik raised an eyebrow at him. ‘And how did you manage to procure them the first time?’

 

‘They were left to me, but I used them all up – didn’t think I’d ever need them again.’ _I thought I got them all._

 

‘I think we’ll need a proper talk after this.’

 

Wesley shrugged as he stepped closer to the entryway of the alley and looked up at the windows. He could see a flickering light source coming from the inside on the fourth floor, though he wasn’t sure if they were just homeless citizens seeking shelter from the elements or the people on his hit-list. He hoped for the latter.

 

‘We should go different directions.’

 

He snapped his attention to Erik as his heart stuttered a beat. ‘No,’ he remembered his lessons with Fox; separation is not the way to do things, ‘we stay together.’ He said as he grabbed hold of Erik’s arm, a mimic of what the man had done for him just minutes ago.

 

‘Disorientation; that will be our advantage to take.’

 

‘Yeah, and then there’ll be a crossfire – I won’t take responsibility if you end up getting shot by me.’

 

The man smirked, as though he was certain Wesley would rather shoot himself in the foot before he shot Erik.

 

He was right.

 

_Fuck’s sake…_

 

He huffed quietly as he pulled Erik closer to him, to stop the man from going off on his own. ‘Look, we’re already outnumbered at it is, we shouldn’t split our odds further.’

 

‘If we do things right, then we won’t have to worry about the odds,’ he said as he laid a calming hand on Wesley’s shoulder and gave a reassuring shake. ‘Have faith in me.’

 

‘I don’t have any faith.’ _Not anymore_. ‘Faith requires me to believe in something, and I don’t believe in God.’

 

‘Then believe in me.’

 

Wesley pursed his lips together and held on tight as he weighed their options.

 

Fox told him that splitting up to do one job was a stupid maneuver: _‘you lose track of the others, of yourself, and you’re more likely to get yourself killed by friendly fire than by your enemy. Remember the Exterminator?’_

_He felt guilt well up in his chest at the mention of the Russian who had done him no wrong; the man who had given him shots of vodka, who had put up with his bullshit and had introduced him into a world of rats and peanut butter. Wesley shouldn’t have pulled that trigger._

_‘But sometimes,’ she began again before he fell into a spiral of depression for an accidental misfire, ‘it’s a necessity, so you have to figure out whether the reward is worth the risk.’_

_He toyed with the broken bullet casings in his fingers as he considered his next move. He wanted to talk to Sloan first, and then go to Moravia where he’ll find Pekwarsky and maybe some answers._

_‘What do you want to do, Wesley?’_

_He pursed his lips together as he drew in a deep breath and huffed apologetically. ‘Sorry, Fox, but I need to do this alone.’_

_A fleeting emotion passed her eyes, but she turned away before he could get a grasp of it. ‘Fine. You shouldn’t go alone, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’_

_‘I’ll keep that in mind.’_

 

‘Well?’ Erik started, bringing Wesley out of his momentary standstill. ‘The night’s not getting any younger; what do you want to do?’

 

He drew in a deep breath. ‘Fine,’ he bit out as he let Erik go, ‘we’ll do this your way.’

 

He nodded, his expression calm and determined, as he pointed at the building just next to their target. ‘I’ll find my way in from the rooftop, you’ll take the front.’

 

_This is a bad idea._

 

‘Wait, Erik,’ he said just as the man was about to go.

 

‘Trust me.’

 

_As if you haven’t already got it._

 

He closed his eyes and listened to the quiet footsteps fade away to nothing. He tried to listen for the possible creak of broken floorboards, the crunch of gravel or glass shards beneath polished shoes, but he heard only silence.

 

_He’s done this before._

Obviously, he needed to have a little chat with Erik once this was over, too.

 

Wesley counted to five, checked to make sure no eyes were on him before he ran from the safety of the alleyway to the side of the building. The chipped bricks were cool beneath his finger tips and he felt the first droplets of rain pitter onto his face.

 

Streetlamps were sparse in this area, and the sliver of moon in the clouded sky couldn’t do much better to give him the visual he’d prefer. The entire block was run-down, next on the city council’s list to being bulldozed over and refurbished so they could match with the rest of San Francisco; to promote tourism.

 

He dropped the thought as he carefully maneuvered his way around the building and eventually found his way inside, out of the light shower of rain.

 

Spider-webs were everywhere, and at his first step, he heard a scurry of feet on the floor. Bugs, critters, rats and all sorts of wild life have gathered and made a home for themselves here. He thought it was rather fitting that the last three assassins of the Fraternity have also made this their abode.

 

Wesley was careful where he placed his feet, slow and steady. He didn’t want anybody to grow alert at his presence, wanted it to be a surprise, one that started at the barrel of his gun and ended with a spray of blood on the wall.

 

The stairs were tricky, took the most concentration from him and he almost wished he had taken the roof way in instead, but he was already on the second floor, and he could hear the snickers echoing through the thin walls and the idle chatter from above him. Just two more to go.

 

The floors were littered with broken pieces of wood, broken beer bottles, broken shards of glass, rusted nails, rusted irons, rusted screws and the odd piece of plastic that flew with the dried leaves as the wind blew through the office building. He was on the third floor and the voices were becoming more pronounced. As he stood on the bottom stair leading to the fourth, he could see a flicker of shadows just ahead of him.

 

‘—was a crazy fucker, I’m glad he’s dead.’

 

‘I’ve always thought he was invincible, if you ask me.’

 

‘Nobody asked.’

 

‘I’m just saying.’

 

‘Doesn’t matter; we got Gibson where Sloan couldn’t.’

 

Somebody laughed. ‘Can you believe the guy pretended to be a professor? Who the fuck was he trying to bullshit, anyway?’

 

They laughed harder while his blood boiled and his heart thundered in his chest. Wesley drew in one slow, deep breath after another as he placed one careful step ahead of the other and made his way to the top of the stairs. Five steps down, he pulled out his gun, checked to make sure the safety was off before he took one more step closer.

 

‘Did you hear something?’

 

Wesley held his breath as the shadows grew and the voices came to a hush.

 

‘Maybe it was a rat.’

 

‘No, do you feel that?’

 

He kept his eyes focused on the shadows, his gun pointed in front of him, and his breathing quiet. The shadows grew in size, closer and closer until a thunderous boom and groan filled the air and rocked the foundation of the building. The candles blew out.

 

‘Son of a bitch! What the fuck?’

 

He ran up the last four steps, saw with clarity the three men he wanted to kill – a long-haired Caucasian, a heavily tattooed beefy Islander and a young man no older than him. He shot twice at his first target, the Caucasian, through the chest in his heart and lung and watched as the man’s face scrunched up in pain and fell to the littered floor, on top of the candles that have fallen on their side. He dashed behind a wall just as a spray of bullets came barreling past him. Concrete and paneling smacked the side of his body and face as he continued to run, run, run.

 

_Where’s Erik? I need to find Erik._

 

He slid across the floor, cut himself on the broken glass and rusted nails as he darted his way up the stairs to the fifth level. The building shook again and groaned loudly.

 

Then there was silence.

 

Wesley crouched behind a dry wall as he took in his surroundings. No reflective surfaces, but he could see a streetlight shining into the room from the sixth window. He looked at the floor and behind him, his shadow stayed close and out of sight.

 

A boot stepped on a broken beer bottle shard and he ran the opposite direction.

 

He cut a corner, turned, threw out an arm and pulled the trigger. The bullet left the gun and flew at a wild trajectory. The tattooed man fired his own and they ricocheted off each other. The man shot again and again. The second missed but the third clipped the side of his calf just as he ducked behind the wall again.

 

 _Getting slow._ Fuck!

 

He huffed as he continued to run, despite the pain shooting up his leg and the blood he was leaving behind like breadcrumbs in a forest. He cursed again as he hobbled his way up the stairs and hurried to the fire escape. Maybe Erik was on the rooftop waiting for him, the bastard. What happened to splitting up and flanking them?

 

_Forget it. Just forget it!_

 

Another rumble shook the building, jostled him to the side and a startled shout reached his ears, alerted him to the man slipping on the metal wet with rain and his blood. Wesley took advantage of the brief loss of balance as he fired twice. One bullet glanced off the metal railings and the other went in one way and out the other of the man’s throat.

 

Choking noises gurgled its way out of the Islander’s lips as he clasped a hand over the bleeding hole. Wesley kicked the gun away before it could be aimed at him and dealt the man a hard blow with the butt of his gun over the head to silence him. The man twitched grotesquely as he lied down and as blood mixed with rain water dripped through the metal floor onto the alley below them. He could see the gun sitting on top of a rubbish dump and he moaned inwardly at the missed opportunity. He could’ve really used that.

 

One bullet left. He should’ve kept the other gun for himself. It had 20 rounds in it.

 

_Where the fuck is Erik?_

 

He brushed his wet hair out of his eyes as he climbed the last steps onto the roof and hurried up the ladder. Just as the rooftop came into sight, so did a gun, pointing straight between his eyes.

 

_Shit._

 

‘I almost thought you were a ghost,’ the young man said as he kicked at Wesley’s hand. He let out a pained shout as the gun clattered onto the fire escape far beneath his reach. ‘I’m sure I killed you. I put the damn bullet in your head.’

 

He pursed his lips as he held his injured hand close to his chest. His leg was shaking, overworked and still bleeding. His heart was raging, but no amount of super human speed or strength could help him out of this spot.

 

‘Wrong head; the person you shot wasn’t Wesley Gibson.’

 

‘Your brother? You let your brother take your place? You sick fuck—’ a startled gasp left his lips as his gun pulled itself away from his fingers, leveled itself to the man’s wide eyes and fired. He dropped like a log.

 

_What the fuck just happened?_

 

Wesley let out a shuddering breath as he turned his bloodshot eyes away from the fallen body towards Erik just as the gun floated to his outstretched hand.

 

‘How did you do that?’

 

He grinned, exposing far too many teeth as he walked over the dead man and extended a hand to Wesley. ‘You have your tricks, I have mine.’

 

Erik helped drag him onto the rooftop and examined his cuts and bruises while Wesley sat and stared at the other with a confused expression. He didn’t know what to make of it.

 

‘Where were you?’ He asked instead of the one question that desperately wanted to burst forth.

 

‘Providing a distraction, and wrecking havoc on the foundation of the building.’

 

‘That was you?’                                                                                                             

 

‘Yes.’

 

_But how?_

‘I think we need to have a talk after this.’

 

Erik laughed quietly as he pulled Wesley to his feet and brushed the dirt off his shoulders. ‘It’s like you read my mind.’

 

\--

 

In the morning, the city council would gather around the corner of George and Farmers’ street and wonder how it got demolished ahead of schedule.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter that's going to be the epilogue after this. For some reason, it looks terribly choppy...
> 
> ...OH WELL!


	12. Chapter 12

 

Question: If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Answer: _just pull that mother-fucking trigger and find out._

 

\--

 

_‘There’s a man I want to kill.’_

_‘Yeah? What’s his name?’_

 

\--

 

Harold Smith was on the third floor of an open-air parking building in Miami, quickly power-walking to get to his next business errand when his hat suddenly flew off his head. He picked it back up and wondered how long that hole has been in his hat for. It hadn’t been there this morning when he put it on, he was sure of it, or maybe he just hadn’t noticed it until now. He shrugged, didn’t mind it; decided he had been meaning to buy a new one, anyway.

 

\--

 

_‘What did he do to piss you off?’_

_‘He killed my mother.’_

 

\--

 

There’s an apartment on the sixth floor that’s been cleared and emptied of all personal belongings. There’s a small smattering of dust gathered on top of the surfaces, as if nobody’s been there for a long time. There’s an opened bag of cat food sitting beneath the kitchen sink along with a mismatched set of bowls, and five cats sitting out by the window on the fire escape, waiting.

 

\--

 

There’s a boat just beyond the docks of Miami, rocking gently with the waves. Beneath it, a submarine made its arrival.

 

\--

 

There’s an apartment on the sixth floor in San Francisco, cleared and emptied like the next one door.

 

\--

 

_‘I thought about wanting to be normal, once. But then I thought, well, where’s the fun in that?’_

 

\--

 

 Earlier in the day, there were four passengers upon the Caspartina. By the end of it, only three remain.

 

\--

 

‘If Sebastian Shaw never saw the bullet coming, can he still stop it?’

 

‘Only one way to find out.’

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I haven't got any idea what next to do...So...it'll be a while before you see anything big from me again.
> 
> If anybody's interested, I also have a Tumblr account. You'll find extra things in there like little snippets and picture prompts you won't be able to find here because I think they're too short to be posted on AO3...
> 
> LINK - http://straggling-wanderer.tumblr.com/


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